


Class of 1953

by shutup_turd



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Age Changes (same age), Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Historical, Historical Accuracy, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Oxford, Pretentious, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow To Update, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:41:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21539962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shutup_turd/pseuds/shutup_turd
Summary: It's the year 1950, and Phil is making a fresh start during his first term at the University of Oxford. He's found genuine friends, he's doing well in his studies, and he can finally be his authentic self...but there's one thing missing.On a starry evening he stumbles upon a group of actors rehearsing Shakespeare in a sumptuous candlelit chapel. It's breathtaking sight... but it's not the scenary catching Phil's eye - instead it's a charming man with curly hair whose eyes seem to burn even brighter than the candles.Expect pretentious flirting, homoerotic yearning, twilight hallways and cuddling in dorm rooms. Oh, and also some references to The Smiths!
Relationships: Dan Howell/Phil Lester
Comments: 17
Kudos: 74





	1. Ask

**Author's Note:**

> "Coyness is nice, and  
> Coyness can stop you  
> From saying all the things in  
> Life you'd like to..."
> 
> To paint an accurate picture of the setting in your head, I thoroughly recommend that you click these links to see what Keble College at Oxford looks like!
> 
> The College:  
> https://discoveroxfordshire.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/08/keble-college-oxford-6.jpg  
> https://media-cdn.tripadvisor.com/media/photo-s/04/54/43/91/keble-college.jpg  
> The Chapel  
> https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/54a8a94ce4b03ccd2a0a7e96/1421470246099-JL0YDHAXZJ2BU07LZWDS/Oxford-Keble-Chapel-4707Edited.jpg?content-type=image%2Fjpeg  
> https://austinspeaker.files.wordpress.com/2013/05/image_large-1.jpg
> 
> Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Coyness is nice, and  
> Coyness can stop you  
> From saying all the things in  
> Life you'd like to..."
> 
> To paint an accurate picture of the setting in your head, I thoroughly recommend that you click these links to see what Keble College at Oxford looks like!
> 
> The College:  
> https://discoveroxfordshire.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/08/keble-college-oxford-6.jpg  
> https://media-cdn.tripadvisor.com/media/photo-s/04/54/43/91/keble-college.jpg  
> The Chapel  
> https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/54a8a94ce4b03ccd2a0a7e96/1421470246099-JL0YDHAXZJ2BU07LZWDS/Oxford-Keble-Chapel-4707Edited.jpg?content-type=image%2Fjpeg  
> https://austinspeaker.files.wordpress.com/2013/05/image_large-1.jpg
> 
> Enjoy!

"Philip! Glad you could make it old chap." 

Bright lights flood into Phil’s vision as he adjusts to the blinding white glare of the overhead lamps. Every Thursday the five members of the University of Oxford’s photography club meet in a small and dusty room where they spend their time comparing cameras, developing prints, and sharing successful shots. Most days, however, they spend the hours simply fooling around - for the five budding academics these meetings are sometimes their only respite from the stresses of Oxford’s grueling workload. Currently inside the room are the founders of the club: John, a stocky, blond maths student with blue eyes and ruddy cheeks, stands a metre or two away from Bill, a lean, gangly, physics student whose pale hands currently adjust the dials on what appears to be a brand new camera. Walking over to a nearby table, Phil puts his leather satchel down and rummages inside it for a roll of film that’s in there _somewhere_...

Bill clears his throat.

“As you may have guessed by now, we seem to be a little short. One can only assume that Mary and Beth are engaged in more... _exciting_ activities once again this week” he sneers in a silky, well-spoken voice, raised eyebrows betraying a mocking yet joking intent. The other two boys chuckle in unison. 

Phil lowers his satchel to the floor and then stops as something catches his eye.

“Blimey Bill, is that the new Zeiss-Ikon Contessa?”

A smirk twinges on Bill’s lips as he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his reddening nose. “It was a gift from John. I tried to tell him that he didn’t have to, but he absolutely insisted,” he replies, swiveling round to face the boy behind him. “You shouldn’t have, honestly John. You really do spoil me.”

“Oh _William_ , it was really nothing” he smiles, giving Bill a tender punch to the shoulder before turning his attention back to a faulty lamp.

‘ _William_ ’? 

Phil has never, _ever_ heard anyone call Bill by his full name before. He observes the blush on Bill’s face spread across previously pallid cheeks. The relationship between the modest, reserved physics geek and the charming, outgoing mathematics whizz had always been an enduring mystery to him - despite being such an unusual pairing, they seem to have found something in common between them. Before he can think about the subject any longer, Phil is interrupted by the sound of giggling coming from just around the corridor.

“Alas! The latecomers arrive at last,” declares the bespectacled brunette, eyes remaining focused on his new camera as the shouting hushes to a stifled whisper. 

Two figures creep into view at the open doorway.

“Having fun are we ladies?” 

“Oh, put a sock in it you old fart,” quips the taller of the two, ignoring Bill’s steely-eyed look.

“Evening everyone! Sorry we’re late,” beams the other girl as she shrugs off a grey duffle coat, hangs it up on the dark, wooden door and turns towards the table, rubbing her hands together in an attempt to defrost them. A second later her companion strides towards the nearest table and sets down a large leather handbag onto the floor with a clunk, before dragging out a stool and sitting down. 

“Evening Mary, evening Beth. What were you two up to?” Phil asks, rising from his seat to search some cupboards.

“Beth and I were in the... library, writing an essay. You know, the one that’s due soon,” Mary assures him.

“You mean the draft on Early Medieval Literature? Wasn’t that only set yesterday?”

Mary shoots Beth a panicked glance.

“Draft, essay - what difference does it make? Anyway, these things take time, and I’ve always thought that it’s good to get on top of something like an essay” she replies, fiddling with a dog-eared folder. 

Bill fidgets. “I can think of some _one_ you were getting on top of.”

Mary gasps. “Cheeky git! I’m keeping an eye on you,” she retorts, getting up and stomping over to the other side of the room to bury her blushing face in some cupboards. “I’m watching you too, John.”

Phil turns back to his own cupboard with a smile. Under a pile of dusty papers he finds the trays he was looking for, dislodges them from the mess, and waves them around in his empty hand for the others to see.

“Hey John, Mary, I’ve got the trays for the stop baths,” he announces, turning around to hand the pile to whoever is nearest. John walks over and takes them with a nod of the head as Mary ignores him completely. 

Phil studies the black-haired girl as she huddles next to her companion, the pair of them whispering and sniggering to themselves about something or other. At 5’10” Mary towers over Beth, who is a good 6 inches shorter. A flash of red lipstick spreads over Mary’s wide smile as she sweeps a strand of long, dark hair away from her angular face. The smile reminds him of the eleven year old girl that had sat down next to him in an English Literature lesson nigh on eight years ago. Known for her harsh tongue when it came to the male sex, Phil was initially apprehensive when she had first pulled up the empty chair next to sit down him, only to be immediately reassured by the fondness she bestowed upon those she took a shine to. It had surprised him, but it wasn’t unwelcome. A week after they had met, when asking why she had decided to sit next to him, Mary had sprung a phrase upon him that still perplexed him even to this day.

“We’re the same, me and you. I can sense it.”

Now, as he observes how Mary’s demeanour softens when gazing into Beth’s big brown eyes, Phil has an uneasy feeling that he knows exactly what she was referencing all those years ago.

“God _damn_ this tap! The water’s bloody well cut off _again_. One would assume that the University of Oxford would have a better plumbing system than this,” John bemoans, wrinkling his blonde brows in animated frustration. “Phil, would you be a dear and fetch a jug for us?”

“Yeah, su-”

“We’ll go!” Exclaim the girls with a questionable amount of excitement, barely waiting for a reply before dashing out of the room arm in arm. 

John frowns for the second time this evening. “O-kay. Guess that one’s sorted.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


Half an hour passes, and there is still no sign of either the water or the girls who volunteered to retrieve it. Slightly exasperated, Phil offers to be the second party to set out in search of the all-important liquid as he’s fairly certain he knows of a working tap in some room or other from across the Liddon Quad. Putting on his woolen coat and grabbing the largest water-vessel in sight, he frantically tries to rack his brains for the room in question as he prepares to brave the winter cold. 

* * *

Scurrying across the Quad Phil plunges his hands into silk-lined pockets as the icy wind nips at his pale face. He drinks in the crepuscular surroundings - Oxford’s colleges make for a staggeringly decadent feast, particularly when shrouded by night. His gaze lands upon the red brick checkerboard of Keble College’s Victorian chapel, the beauty of which is enough to reduce his previous flight to a mere stroll. Stained glass windows emit a warm, inviting glow as metal crosses glisten like stars against the black velvet sky, dark and mysterious. The night sky is like curtains at a theatre, pulled back as if to say ‘here is the stage, open to you, ready for you to write any script that your heart desires. Romance, adventure, fantasy, or tragedy - your performance can be anything that you wish it to be.’ On nights like this the romance of Oxford’s ancient grounds creates pools of emotion inside his chest that well up and threaten to bubble over in divine ecstasy. He sighs to himself, content and calm. Tonight is one such night. After reeling around the quad’s fountain for a minute or two Phil finds himself approaching the open chapel door. As he passes it his ears catch the sound of people speaking - not only are they speaking, but if Phil’s knowledge of Shakespeare is correct, they are _acting_. Instantly forgetting his aquatic assignment he climbs up the steps, treading softly to conceal the sound of his presence, and steals around the doorway to the entrance of the chapel. Peering through the open doors he catches a glimpse of a dozen or so students standing close to the altar, scripts in hand, eyes on page. Their voices echo around the stone walls, dancing from floor to ceiling. He listens in.

“...see your son:

Towards him I made, but he was ware of me

And stole into the covert of the wood:

I, measuring his affections by my own,

That most are busied when they're most alone,

Pursued my humour not pursuing his,

And gladly shunn'd who gladly fled from me”

So it _was_ Shakespeare! A tender nostalgia washes over him as he reminisces upon his own memories of studying Romeo and Juliet many years ago. And what splendid surroundings to rehearse in! Lofty ceilings bounce words from pew to pulpit as low lamps give golden mosaics a magic sparkle. Leaning against the old wooden door Phil focuses on the students, with one boy in particular catching his eye.

“My noble uncle, do you know the cause?”

The boy playing Benvolio is a handsome devil, to put it plainly. He speaks with such fervour, such infectious vigour, and a passion which tugs at his heartstrings and makes Phil glad to have found someone so evidently fond of Shakespeare as he is. The boy’s tie is pulled awry on an unbuttoned shirt, green jumper knotted loosely around his neck. Phil’s heart flutters, mesmerised as he watches the boy delivering his lines.

* * *

Phil had known that he was “queer” from a young age. He had heard the word uttered under hushed tones between his parents as they discussed relatives, family friends, celebrities, or anyone whose campiness stuck out sorer than the lacquered nails on an East-End boy down in the dole-house. But Phil didn’t wear makeup, and he didn’t sound like a woman, and he didn’t spend his time discussing boys with his female classmates. What he did have however, was one fateful family holiday in Corfu.

It was a torrid, languid, lethargic day, and another year spent back at the old house in Greece. The sun beat down in waves, burning Phil’s pasty skin as brother Martyn shoveled sand onto his feet. The summer reading he had brought with him wasn’t tickling his fancy, and Martyn’s game was beginning to get tiresome. Phil sighed, staring out towards the vast expanse of clear azure water. As he pondered over ways to alleviate his boredom a delicious, impulsive desire to indulge in mischievousness began to trickle into his veins.

“I’m going for a walk. I shouldn’t be too long.”

His mum had looked up from her book and squinted, both shielding her eyes from the sun and expressing amazement that her youngest son was actually _choosing_ to do physical exercise.

“Okay, stay safe poppet. Oh - and be back before three o’clock!”

After an hour or so of traipsing across sand and traversing through pine trees, he eventually had found a secluded alcove on top of a steep stretch of rocks, away from tourists, facing a small bay with not a soul in sight. Laying down on the smooth, warm stone, he placed his head under the shade of a tree branch, closing his eyes and feeling the caress of the sun on his bare chest as a slight breeze tickled the prepubescent hairs on his abdomen. 

Finally, peace at last. 

A brief slumber had been interrupted by talking coming from below. Feeling slightly sluggish after basking in the lazy heat he had opened his eyes and crawled over to the side of the rock, peeping over the edge to investigate.

A man had wandered into the bay with a woman by his side, and as the couple walked across the sand Phil’s eyes had meandered over the man’s body; he was blond, he was tall, his stance was confident, and the muscles on his back rippled as he stretched his golden hands towards the sky. The man checked his watch as the woman looked around as if waiting for someone, before the pair of them came together for an embrace as they faced the waves that crashed on the bay. 

Phil couldn't stop staring from behind the bush. There had been something about the way the man’s body pressed against the woman’s back, something about the way his hands wound around her waist, smoothed over her breasts and briefly graced the skin around her neck - there was something about it that conjured up a feeling inside him that he had never experienced before. After a short while the woman turned her head and tapped her partner on the shoulder, pointing at the rocks just beyond Phil. He ducked, heart racing in fear as he lost his footing and slipped across a rock, blushing furiously and wincing as his feet landed on a sharp stone. Unable to bear the thought of missing even a second of this secretive encounter, he got up immediately and watched on. Through the leaves he had seen an olive-skinned man with dark, curly hair appear from the side of the colossal boulder, stepping towards the couple as the woman pried herself from the blond man and ran towards the newcomer. As she landed in his arms he swept her off her feet and swung her in the air as she laughed. The hug ended with a hand around the waist, and a brief peck on the lips.

Phil adjusted his glasses. Was he mistaken, or did he just see this lady go from fondly embracing one man to sharing a kiss with another? The pair linked arms and strolled towards the first man, who fiddled with the hem of his tight navy swimming trunks as he beamed back at them. The dark haired fellow opened his arms and shouted a few Greek words to the blond man.

“Είσαι τόσο όμορφος, χρυσέ μου!”

A slap on the back, a playful punch, and then they too had leaned in for a kiss. Not a peck on the cheek, not a swift gracing of the lips - Phil had been fairly certain that this was the act that the boys back at boarding school had described using the word “French”. But two men…? He took a deep breath. Shuffling out from under the shrub he brushed some leaves off from his trunks, only to freeze in confusion when he felt something hard underneath.

He looked at the trio below him, observing how the men clutched each other’s faces and kissed each other eagerly, before looking back down at his shorts. The boys back at boarding school had talked about _this_ too, although it had never happened to him until now. Peering back at the empty forest behind, he had double checked, then triple checked that he was alone.

It would be terribly, _terribly_ embarrassing if someone caught him mastur-

“ _Splendid_ job everyone, I could really feel the intensity tonight. Let’s call it quits here. Oh, and remember - we haven’t got long now until the real thing, so make sure you learn those lines!”

Snapping back to reality, Phil adjusts his eyes to see actors and actresses put down their scripts and begin talking to each other, evidently weary, but animated nonetheless. He searches for the actor playing Benvlio, searches for that brown, curly hair, and then suddenly they lock eyes. The boy had been staring directly at him. In a flash the other man breaks eye contact, and resumes conversation with the girl next to him as she hoists a long brown coat over her shoulders. Oh dear. They must be coming this way. 

Phil decides that it’d be best to evacuate the chapel before the situation becomes ever so slightly awkward, and so he turns to walk away, heart thumping in his chest. A hot flush creeps over his cheeks as he makes his way towards the exit, the image of the boy’s brown eyes burn in his mind as he hesitates in front of the doors.

In an unexpected burst of confidence Phil takes a few paces back, cranes his neck to peer through the doors to the chapel, and sure enough he sees that same boy walking down the aisle and talking to his friend. Eventually he catches sight of Phil watching him, his face flashing a look of pure confusion. Shit. Panicking, fumbling and stumbling, Phil dashes out of the portico, heart racing and nerves alive as he speeds across the quad and as far away from the chapel as possible. He squints at his watch - nearly 8 o’clock. Damn this godforsaken water! 

* * *

Bill and John appear to be in a cheerful mood when Phil nervously slinks back into the photography room. As such, he is instantly forgiven for being the third person in one night to give up water collection in the name of secret romantic pursuits. Feeling guilty nonetheless, he volunteers to be the one to lock up the room for the night as compensation, enjoying the peaceful silence as he sees to the mess left behind.

He roams around the room, closing cupboards here, pulling in stools there. There’s a spatter of black ink on the table, no doubt left by Bill and his insistence on using a dip pen to write everything from letters to classwork to scribbled ideas on dog-eared notebooks. As he gets a cloth to wipe it up he feels a soft sense of contentment as he reflects upon his new life here at Oxford. Secondary school was rotten, absolutely rotten; teased for being smart, teased for being tall, teased for wearing glasses, teased for any reason which made him different to the brutish, snobbish bastards that ruled his school’s hierarchical roost. Before they can bubble up to the surface Phil tries to quell those raw, rough memories, reminding himself that it’s all in the past, and he should be focusing on the present. He’s growing into his authentic self, he’s started dressing however he likes, he’s made genuine friends who he can talk to, he’s academically stimulated without the fear of being called a geek, and, in time, maybe he’ll be able to express that other part of himself too. With a sigh, he throws Bill’s inky rag into the sink, puts John’s screwdriver into a drawer, tucks in the stool that Mary dragged out from the desk and picks up a pen that must have fallen out of Beth’s pocket. The peace in his chest leaves him with no doubt that he’s got everything now - no more fear of rejection, no horrible need for awkward explanations. Just friendship, companionship, and unspoken understanding. Blinking with embarrassing rapidity, he cleans up the last of the mess.

_*knock knock*_

Mary and Beth? In the split second it takes him to turn around, Phil prepares a quip or two to tease them with. To his surprise, and his horror, he is instead met with the sight of 'Benvolio' leaning against the open door, arms folded, ankles crossed, sly smirk plastered onto his mischievous face.

"You could have just come in if you wanted to, you know. We don't bite."

Phil’s heart races and his stomach sinks at the realisation of what’s happening. It was bad enough that he’d been caught once staring at the object of his admiration, but _multiple_ times? And now said object is here, standing in the doorway, _smirking_ at him? In the midst of his fluttering Phil hungrily consumes the face opposite him. Tousled chestnut curls flop onto strong brows, and freckles speckle his cheeks like stars that lie next to petal pink lips. His demeanour is deliberately indifferent, trying to appear nonchalant, but with such purposeful neutrality that the man betrays a sense of impatience - desperation, even. The handsome devil chuckles at Phil's silence.

“Ah, apologies - quite rude of me not to introduce myself first. I'm Daniel,” the boy continues, “and um, we're putting on a production of Romeo and Juliet in a few weeks, if you want to come and see it,” he offers, patches of his jaw flushing red. Phil blinks, unsure of what to say, and the young man’s eyes fall to the ground briefly before thrusting his large hands into trouser pockets.

"Sorry, perhaps I assumed that-"

"No, no, it's alright," Phil finally replies, desperate to stop the potential tragedy of this charming man leaving him forever, never to speak to him again. "That'd be great. I um, I really like Shakespeare."

The boy’s eyes flick upwards to meet Phil’s briefly before he nods, turning his vision towards the ground once again as he bites on his lips to stifle a smile. His eyes dance across the floor as if plucking up the courage to look back up at the blue eyed boy, which he does, thank God, for when their eyes lock together (and Phil swears it’s not his inner English student making him think this), it feels as if two worlds connect, two universes collide, two strings of the soul’s yarn reaching out and tying knots and weaving together, two hands meeting and fingers intertwining and grasping onto each other with a forceful connection. It’s breathtaking. It’s almost too much.

The boy unleashes a grin, and Phil is so, so thankful for it, for when he does his entire face lights up like a candle burning in a dark room, wide flash of white teeth and crinkled eyes unashamed and clumsy like liquid wax spilling and dripping down onto bare skin, burning it with its hot droplets as they maintain their electrifying gaze. Daniel sighs.

“Okay, fantastic. Dates are yet to be confirmed, but so far it’s looking to be some time after Michaelmas ends. I’ll er, I’ll let you know.”

“Great, yeah, I’ll come along!” Phil beams, drumming his fingers on the counter behind him. 

“Mmm.” Another moment of silence. “Will you be... here, next Thursday? Same time, same place?”

“Oh, er, yes, we meet here every week,” Phil stutters, “the photography club, that is. We meet here on Thursdays. Weekly.” Cursing himself for tripping over his words in front of someone who had spoken so confidently and so eloquently before, he takes in a deep breath, calming himself.

“Alright,” the boy laughs softly, “I’ll see you then”. In one swift movement he pushes his back off the door frame, grabs the other side, and swings himself off down the corridor, heels clacking on the tiles as he goes. Buckling up his satchel Phil strides out of the room, managing to catch the sight of Daniel speeding off down a flight of stairs. As he turns the lights off and shuts the door, he closes his eyes and exhales.

He checks his watch. Only 6 days, 23 hours and 38 minutes until he’ll be here next Thursday, same time, same place. He parades down the corridor, slight skip in his step.

Maybe he’ll get to explore _that_ side of his personality a little sooner than he might have previously thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading - it means the absolute world to me, and I hope you'll stick around for more!
> 
> As well as writing, I also make art. My Tumblr is @et-in-cinerem-reverteris and my Instagram is @shutup_turd, if you're interested.


	2. Is It Really So Strange?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daniel drops by the photography room once again, and the pair get talking properly this time ;)

Dawn’s delicate glow trickles through the open curtains, resting peacefully on Phil’s sleeping face - a calm, tranquil scene, except for the winter sun burning straight into his eyes. Fluttering into consciousness he blinks once, twice, three times, and then he is awake. Lifting a cold palm to shield his face from the searing brightness of dawn, he curses himself for forgetting to close the blinds yet  _ again _ . With a sigh he cranks his neck towards his bedside table and lazily picks up his watch. 

6:32. 

That’s  _ way  _ too early! Sinking back onto a plump pillow, he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Ah well. Carpe diem.

After fumbling around for his spectacles he emerges from his blanket cocoon, bare feet recoiling at the touch of the cool carpet as he shuffles across the room and makes his way over the dazzling windows. As he approaches the bay he yawns, opens his eyes, and is greeted by the stunning brilliance of a mid-November morning. 

Frosty grass twinkles on the windowpane like a sheet of crisp silver, seductive sunlight creeping over the horizon and illuminating the stony nodes of the chapel’s ancient pinnacles. The sky is vast, open, endlessly blue, and then Phil is gripped by a compulsion to open his window and throw his head out into the open and breathe in the refreshing winter air but...that would be stupid, because the air outside is freezing, which would make him cold... but it  _ is  _ beautiful - although he  _ really  _ doesn’t want to be cold...

Before he can stop himself, he’s undoing the latch on his 14th-century window, jolting it open with a sturdy shove, and then the icy breeze pours into his warm room and shocks him awake. He stretches, thrusts out his arms, and examines the scene below as his cranial cogs clumsily begin to work.

‘But soft, what light through yonder window breaks?

It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.’

If Phil’s mind was a room, it would be a chaotic, tattered library with open books and scraps of crumpled notes littered all over the carpeted floor. Ever since he began studying English at A-Level, and even more so after studying it for a degree, his brain has been chock full of literary quotes that barge in at random and, frankly, unnecessary intervals, with the large majority of them coming from none other than the Bard himself - Shakespeare. 

Shakespeare? Phil frowns. A memory cog starts to turn. Shakespeare. Romeo and Juliet… 

Oh! 

Memories from last week explode into existence. Bill, John, Mary and Beth, the water, the chapel and finally the boy - oh, the boy, Dan! Daniel! 

Phil whips his head around to face his calendar, and sure enough today is the day, today is Thursday, today is the day that Daniel promised to meet him after the photography club finishes up for the night!

He pauses, stopping himself before he gets too excited. 

In reality, Daniel only inquired as to whether or not he would be there again this week, but Phil secretly hopes that this means that there will be another visit from this unfamiliar face. A shiver runs down his body- the chill wind, or the anticipation of tonight, or perhaps both? Closing the window with a loud thud, he saunters back towards his bedside table and picks up his small leather watch, strapping it firmly to his wrist. 

6:43. Only 13 hours, and 17 minutes to go.

* * *

“Phil.”

“Phil?”

...

“Phillip!”

A hand waves over his face.

He flickers back to reality, and the bright light of the photography room greets him once more. Regaining his attention, he glances around to see the group watching him eagerly - Bill rolls his eyes, the girls giggle to themselves, and John raises a quizzical eyebrow.

“Hey, Phil, we’re heading off!” He stares at Mary blankly. “What’s this, you got smog in your noggin?” She teases, leaning forward on crossed arms. 

“What? No, I-”

“Someone’s on the hook!” Adds Beth as she springs up from her seat. Phil checks the clock. 7:50-something. Mary rises too, sweeping up a pile of photographs in the process.

“Oh he’s gone.  _ Real  _ gone. Anyway, let’s get going.” 

Thoroughly disgruntled at this sudden jumping to conclusions that seemingly erupted out of nowhere, Phil sulks and admires his black brogues in protest, resolutely studying the creases that have just begun to appear around the toes.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Mary crooks her head in his direction and smiles as she pulls on a fur cape, while the rest of the crowd pile on hats, scarves and gloves. “Come on Philly, don’t be a wet rag.” She raises her penciled-on black eyebrows. “You’ve been away with the faeries ever since 7 o’clock, and I think I know why!”

This unnerves him.  _ Does  _ she?  _ Could  _ she? But…  _ how _ ? 

“Oh really? Well if you’re psychic, you’ll know that I was only thinking about how annoying you are,” he jests, rolling his eyes as part of their all-too-familiar game of teasing. 

Mary grins. “Sure, sure. Just remember that I,” she lifts two fingers to her face, “have got eyes on the back of my head. And ears, everywhere.”

“Mmmm, and a mouth that never quits jabbering!” Adds John, making his way towards the door with Bill close at his side. “Thanks for offering to lock up again Phil, I really appreciate it.''

“Oh, it’s no bother. My pleasure.”

John’s teeth flash pearly white and his blonde pompadour practically glistens under the overhead lights as he drums gloved fingers on the door frame. “Well, see you old chap!”

Bill follows John out the door, saluting as he goes. Mary isn’t far behind.

“Enjoy your Shakespeare, Philly!”

He freezes in shock.

**** Last one to go, Beth waves a timid, reconciliatory goodbye. “Sorry about that. And um,” she pauses, as her round cheeks begin to pinken. “Good luck!” 

The door swings to and creaks back open as Phil sits alone at the table, utterly bewildered. 

_ “Enjoy your Shakespeare.” _

How does she know? How, how how!? Admittedly, Mary does know a surprising amount of people, but for the love of God, why on earth does she have to know Daniel? He gets up from his stool and saunters over to a mirror that sits by the sink, squinting at it as he reflects upon his friend’s words. He had never been much of a talker when it came to romance; unsure of the possible reactions from others, and unsure of his  _ own  _ feelings most of the time, he had been fine keeping these fleeting emotions to himself while occasionally becoming embroiled in the odd fling or two over the years. Nothing major, nothing particularly long-lasting, but nothing he had ever disclosed to anybody else, either. 

A reflection stares back at him. There are purplish bags under his eyes, and his skin is unusually pale. Yesterday night was spent staying up until God knows when with a cup of coffee and a Latin anthology by his side, only to wake up a few hours later with little sleep and little recollection of the poetry he had been studying. Never again. He spruces up his flattening quiff, hair a darker shade of auburn now that winter is approaching, creating a flattering contrast against his sage green sweater. He frowns as he notices a small mark on his tortoiseshell browline glasses. Nothing a quick wipe on his shirt tails won’t fix. As he twists around to find an untucked part of his shirt to clean his lenses with, he notices a figure standing pensively in the hallway. 

The glasses fly back onto his face.

“Can I help you?” He blurts out with a faint voice crack.

_ Can I help you?! _ For God’s sake, Phillip!

The boy in the doorway cocks his head to the left and wrinkles his eyebrows, mouth crinkling upwards in both confusement and bemusement. 

“Sorry, that was a bit, um…” Phil begins, before breaking out into a chuckle as Daniel begins to laugh over the sudden outburst. “Sorry, I didn’t see you there. Please, come in.”

His visitor saunters across the room, peering at the photographs which sit pinned to pieces of overhanging string and meandering around the piles splayed out across beige linoleum. 

“So is  _ this  _ where the photography club is held, then?”

“Yeah, here every Thursday.”

Phil stops - last week he hadn’t mentioned that it was a  _ photography  _ club. Daniel must have read Phil’s mind, and a wave of panic washes over his face.

“Oh- not that I’m... stalking you or anything,” he assures, rocking back and forth on his heels. “I’m friends with Mary, and she tells me stuff. About photography, and the photography club.”

“Right,” Phil chuckles, trying to read some meaning into Daniel’s words. The curly haired boy crouches down next to a pile of prints as Phil pulls out a stool from the table closest to him.

“Are these yours?” The brunette asks, slowly leafing through the photos.

“Yeah. My friend Bill got a new camera recently and he let me try it out. It’s very fancy. Trust me, normally my photos aren’t this good. It’s the camera doing most of the work really.”

“Mmmm.”

There’s a peaceful pause as Daniel contemplates the pictures. “I think they’re lovely. This is the chapel, isn’t it?” He squints at one print in particular. “Hah! God, I spend so much time in this place that I’m almost sick of it. It looks nice here though.”

Phil watches silently as Daniel pores over the rest of the pile. He’s crouching close to the ground, one knee up to his face, the other leg set out straight. Last week’s forest green jumper has been replaced by a dark brown cardigan that’s ever so slightly too small, and sits a little too high on his freckled arms. A wristwatch sits on his right wrist. Hmm. Left handed then. Interesting.

Despite Daniel complimenting his photographic talent, Phil still feels a tad nervous about having his work scrutinised. What must Daniel be thinking? Does he view Phil’s hobbies as pretentious? As not being academic enough? Does he think his pictures are boring? Trying too hard? The two of them have only just met, and he really shouldn’t care this much about the opinion of a stranger, but the feeling of being around this young lad has started to become intoxicating enough for Phil to want nothing more than his approval. 

Dan’s head flies upwards. “What do you study?”

“Oh, I err, I’m reading English. What about you?”

“Music. Bit of a bore really, but it’s fun sometimes.” Daniel pauses. “Hey, English though! That’s impressive.”

Phil blushes at the unexpected flattery. “Is it? I’ve never really felt like I’m  _ that  _ brilliant at it. I like reading books and poetry and studying language, but I’ve never been particularly amazing at writing essays.”

“Listen, bud. You  _ must  _ be intelligent if you’re studying it at Oxford.”

“Yeah, I guess,” he replies, happy to give in as the validation makes his heart jump for joy. “So, what about you and Music? Do you play any instruments?”

“Piano, mostly, but also some drums. And I can sing - well, kind of.”

“That’s impressive! When I was younger my parents paid some tutor to teach me piano, but I’d always annoy him by making mistakes on purpose when he used to give me really difficult songs to play. He probably hated me. Sorry Ernest, if you’re out there”.

Daniel snickers, eyes glistening and full of life. “Oh, I can relate with the evil piano teachers. When I was twelve I had this lady who was absolutely  _ odious.  _ Seriously creepy and stupidly picky. Odd woman.” He sighs. “Hah, here’s a story. Once I crept into her kitchen, and when I opened her fridge, all she had in it was raw meat. Raw meat! What kind of psychopath only has raw meat in their fridge?” He cries, gesticulating wildly as his listener erupts into laughter.

As the noise dies down, Phil watches Daniel with a lingering smile. The boy shuffles towards the wall, settles his back against the cream painted bricks, props his elbow against his knee and rests his chin upon his wrist, and then, almost as if he could sense it were there, nonchalantly guides his eyes upwards to meet Phil’s soft, admiring gaze. 

The object of his affection frowns. “Oh, do come and sit down here with me, won’t you? I don’t like you being up there.”

Breaking off their eye contact, Phil gets up from the stool and sits on the cold floor, positioning himself against the legs of the table so that he sits opposite Daniel. After a moment of consideration he decides to cross his legs, all too aware of the fact that his shoes would be touching the other boy’s if he were to extend his legs outwards.

“So, about this production of Romeo and Juliet,” he begins, Daniel’s eyes lighting up at the mention of it. “When is it happening?”

The boy beams. “I’m surprised you remembered! Well, we confirmed the date last week, and it  _ should  _ be happening on the ninth of December. God, it’s such a stress! I feel as if nobody’s going to turn up.” He rolls his head to the right, staring into the distance for a few seconds. “Oh, please say you’ll come along! It’d be a rotten shame if I had to waste my talent and perform to an empty house.”

“Of course, I’ll drop by! You were great when I caught a glimpse of you last week,” he exclaims, tentatively returning the praise from earlier.

“Ah, well, it’s a solid team we’ve got. Queer bunch, but fantastic people on the whole.”

Phil curses himself. Daniel had missed his timid attempt at affection. Did he intentionally try to dodge the compliment? Is he trying to deflect it? Should he try again?

“Hmm, I thought  _ you  _ stood out though.”

Daniel’s eyes widen ever so slightly and his cheeks flush a shade of rosy pink.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

The lad stifles a grin before inching his legs forward and propping another hand to his chin, cupping his face as his eyes flit over towards Phil.

“Thank you, that’s really sweet. What makes you say that?”

Hungry for compliments, eh? Phil hesitates, wondering how far he should go with this.

“You were passionate. In secondary school most people read Shakespeare like it was the last thing on earth that they wanted to do, and I felt like the only kid who actually cared. I was always too shy to volunteer to read out loud though. I don’t know why. But I really liked your performance, you’ve obviously got talent.”

Daniel smiles sheepishly, before his eyes light up for a second time. He gasps. “You should see the costume they’ve given me! I look absolutely  _ ridiculous  _ wearing it.”

Quick change of subject, Phil notices. “Oh really? Why? Is it all flouncy sleeves and tight breeches?”

The other fellow cackles, nodding as he covers his face with his large hands. “Unfortunately. Christ, it makes me look so  _ bloody  _ camp. The part of the performance I’m most terrified of is wearing that godawful garb.”

“ _ Come on _ , it can’t be  _ that  _ bad, can it?”

“No, no, it really is. In fact, I’ll show you if you want.”

“Now?”

“Yeah, why not?”

This isn’t the sort of thing Phil would normally say yes to. Normally he’d make up an excuse, like oh, I’m sorry, but I’ve got an essay to hand in tomorrow, or oh, apologies, I’ve got a terrible migraine. But that was then, and this is now. Because while shyness can be nice, shyness can also stop you from doing all the things in life that you’d like to.

“What’s the time?” He asks, getting up from his spot and scanning the walls for a clock.

“Eight thirty. Why, do you need to be somewhere?” Replies the brunette, staring up at him from his place on the floor.

“What? Oh, er, no, no I don’t.”

“Well then, don’t worry! We’ve got all the time in the world.”

The phrase elicits a small smile from Phil as he looks down at the boy beneath him. 

“Would you help me up?” 

Daniel’s gaze is more tender than ever. Phil’s heart melts at the sight. Once again, he would normally try to wiggle his way out of such a scenario, too awkward to indulge himself, too restrained to give into temptation, but this time he offers his hand without giving himself time to overthink it. 

Daniel’s warm palm grips against Phil’s cold one as he’s yanked up off the floor with a grunt of effort. The pair stagger slightly, gripping onto each other to steady their balance as they catch their footing. And then they catch their footing, and neither of them let go. Faces mere inches apart, they use the sudden intimacy to observe each other more closely. Phil studies the man in front of him; Daniel is slim, and tall - 6’3” or 6’4”, although his slouching brings down his height considerably - he has broach shoulders, a long neck, freckles on his chin with dimples on both cheeks, and a delicate cluster of loose brown curls which sit on his forehead above dark, strong eyebrows. Warm palm twitches against cold palm, and Phil feels a flash of disappointment as Daniel starts to pull away. Then, unexpectedly, he feels fingers trace against his palm, setting off sparks across his skin and up into his head even as their bodies no longer touch. God. He wishes he could look at Daniel forever. 

Phil glances towards his satchel, and risky thought bares itself to him. 

“Would it be alright if I went and got my camera? I bought a different brand of film last week, and I want to do some tests.”

“Sure, go ahead. As long as you don’t take any pictures of me,” he sighs jokingly.

“Why, are you embarrassed?” Phil jests, slinging his satchel over his shoulders before grabbing his jacket from the wall.

“No!” Daniel retorts. “I just get nervous around cameras.”

“So you  _ are  _ embarrassed then.”

“No I’m  _ not _ ! I just don’t want to look ugly in one of your,” he gesticulates towards the camera, wrinkling his brows, “your photographs.”

“So you’re  _ not  _ embarrassed, but you  _ are  _ insulting my photography skills?”

“No, you,” he cries, arms akimbo, “you...  _ walnut _ !”

Phil chuckles. “Walnut? What kind of insult was that?” The act of mocking Daniel is growing to be surprisingly good entertainment.

“ _ Out, you baggage! You tallow face!”  _ Daniel retorts, pacing towards the door. “There’s some Shakesperian for you. Happy now?”

Phil beams. “That’s more like it.”

“Oh, hurry up! We don’t have all night.

“I thought you said we did?” Daniel throws his hands up in the air as Phil giggles mischievously. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. Shall we head off?” He turns out the lights and locks the door as Daniel moves into the hallway. 

“Thank  _ Christ _ . I thought you’d never ask.”

* * *

Walking across the quad and over to the chapel, the conversation ranges from Oxford to Romantic literature to the current gossip between their mutual friends. They talk with rapture as they exchange jokes and anecdotes, beginning the addictive process of getting to know a person who is electrifyingly new, and completely and utterly fascinating. As they push open the tall wooden door their talking echoes through the empty hall, filling the place of worship with the sound of apprehensive teasing and the sort of exaggerated laughter that besotted people do when trying to impress an attractive joke-teller. 

“The chaplain lets us keep the costumes in a box up at the top where the stairs to the organ are,” explains Daniel as they walk up the aisle, heels clacking against the cold stone floor. Phil gazes about him with wonder - it’s only the second he’s ever been inside Keble’s chapel, and the beauty of it still takes his breath away.

“I won’t be a minute!” Daniel calls, as he dips through a cloister to the right. 

Meanwhile, Phil takes a gander around the large space. Dark brown pews with carved backs sit in rows facing the altar, gothic arches decorating the high walls. Inside the arches lie mosaics of ceramic in russet, sage and cream, arranged in stripes and lines of fleur-de-lys, above which sit depictions of the bible in a 360 degree devotional narrative. He winds his camera up and takes a few photos.

On his way towards the chancel Phil peeps inside the cloister where Daniel is getting dressed. He’s got the tights on, and they sure are  _ tight _ . They’re a deep burgundy colour, with red and black stripes running all the way from his ankles up to his...anyway. What Daniel hasn’t yet put on is his shirt. The muscles of the brunette’s freckled back and shoulders shift and contort as he lifts the white linen over his head, letting it fall gently as he smooths it down over his torso. Running his fingers through his dishevelled curls, he arranges them forwards into the vague quiff they sat in prior to their disarray. Phil marvels at the scene. It’s all very poetic, really. A handsome boy absolutely  _ insisting  _ that they take a trip to the chapel so he can get dressed up in 17th century costume for him to see? Sounds like a pleasant way to spend an evening. As Daniel laces up what appears to be a velvet doublet, Phil creeps over to the other side of the chancel so as not to give away his ogling. In the midst of examining a very long candle, Phil hears the sound of footsteps behind him.

“Okay, here it is.  _ Please  _ don’t laugh.”

When he turns around, the last thing Phil does is laugh - in fact, all he can do is stare. Dan’s shoulders were already broad, but the puffed sleeves only serve to accentuate their width. His torso is bound up with velvet and leather, tying in close at the neck with an embroidered collar laced up to the top. It’s an impressively intricate design, and suits him well. What could Daniel be complaining about? 

Then Phil’s eyes travel downwards. 

The maker of the costume certainly did not think it was necessary to preserve Benvolio’s modesty. To make the lack of trousers even worse, a codpiece sits on Daniel’s groin, jutting out at an uncomfortably vulgar angle.

“Wow. This sure is... something.”

“Isn’t it horrendous?”

“Hmmm, no, I like it. It’s very regal,” he insists with an assuring smile.

“You think?”

“Yeah. Especially in this setting. You fit right in.”

Daniel relaxes his shoulders slightly, fumbling around with a sword attached to a leather belt. “Hey, take a look at this!” He exclaims, removing it from its cover and taking a step back as he waves the blade around in the air. “I don’t actually ever use it, but I feel terribly princely with it by my side,” he adds, pretending to duel in a surprisingly artful manner. A hobby for fencing, maybe? 

The blade swings a little too close to his face. “Mind out! I’ll end up like Tybalt if you’re not careful.” 

“Sorry, got a bit carried away.” Daniel stops, putting his hands on his hips as he turns around. Under the light of the dim overhead lamps his velveteen costume glows like fresh blood, the blade of his sword twinkling like mercury and casting glimmers across his ruddy-cheeked face.

“Hold that pose for a minute.”

Phil shifts forward then winds up his camera, flicks a switch, then peers through the viewfinder. The shot is already perfect, but he takes a moment to admire the sight in front of him as he pretends to adjust various dials. Daniel’s eyes hover over the camera before he bashfully averts his gaze. A button is pressed, the shutter clicks, and the picture is taken.

“If I look hideous in that photograph, I swear to God, I will not hesitate to rip it to shreds.”

“Oh yeah? You’ll have to fight me first,” Phil protests, as he jokingly readies his fists.

“You wouldn’t stand a chance against me and my trusty steel, you peasant! Huzzah!” Daniel jabs the air and they laugh together briefly, before Phil’s smile turns into a frown.

“Why do you keep saying that my photos of you are going to turn out badly?”

The actor shrugs, staring absent-mindedly at the tiled floor as he takes a breath. “Maybe it’s some deep-seated fear I have about expressing my hobbies, because in the past people at school always took the mickey out of me for being a “pouf”, and a “geek”, when all I wanted to do was have fun and read books and poems and plays without being teased for in, which was no doubt made worse by the fact that I was a lonely child who just wanted to have someone that I could trust to share in them with.” Exhaling after his protracted monologue, he gazes feebly at the blue-eyed boy in front of him.

Phil pauses, speculating over the word ‘pouf’ and feeling sorry for Daniel’s lonely childhood. “I see, I see. Well, I like books and poems and plays, so you can come to me if you ever want to talk to me about those,” he assures, not entirely sure where he’s going with this or at which point he should stop. “And don’t worry about the costume, I think it makes you look very handsome.”

A smirk flits across Daniel’s face as he leans against his sword and takes a step forward. There’s a heavy silence. Then, Daniel’s eyes flutter upwards, and then Phil is hit with sudden realisation of how desperately he wants to reach out and cup the boy’s face and pull him in for a long and passionate kiss, but luckily, before he can risk doing so, the boy breaks out into a shy smile.

“I just realised something.”

“Hmm? What’s that?” replies Phil, languorous and lazy as he snaps out of his daydream.

“I never asked you what your name was.”

“Oh. Well, my name’s Philip.”

“Philip.” Daniel appears to mull the name over. “I feel like that’s too formal. Like we’re business partners or something. Can I call you Phil instead?”

“Only if I can call you Dan.”

“Sounds fair to me.” Dan fiddles with his sword again, and Phil begins to pace around the chapel before pausing at the altar. 

“I feel as if you should be standing behind here or something.”

“Oh yeah? Like this?” Dan queries, shuffling up to the platform and pretending to be a preacher giving a sermon, acting with such zeal that Phil can’t help but laugh and reach for his camera once more. This time, his muse strikes a pose and peers directly into the lens, now unashamedly revelling in having his own personal photographer.

The scene would likely be a strange one to a churchgoer who happened to stumble upon the two boys gallivanting around the chapel, one in 16th century dress and the other in a regular green sweater and grey slacks. An odd sight indeed, but if the onlooker were to stay and watch, they would begin to notice how the brunette stares at the ginger, fixating upon him as though he were an angel descended from heaven, and if the onlooker paid attention to the angel they would notice how he takes every opportunity he can find to fix the other boy’s curls, collars and cuffs, his touches lingering for a split second too long to merely be aesthetic grievances. And were the onlooker to stay so long as to see the costume slip from the actor’s body as he shrowds himself in his solitary cloister, they would also be faced with the sight of the photographer sitting on the end of a pew, head resting in his palms, camera dangling from its strap as he steals glimpses from inside the open doorway. Lastly, if the innocent churchgoer were to linger around as the pair plotted plans for next weekend, only one who were blind, deaf and dumb would not see the emotion in their exhanges, could not hear the affection in their voices, and would not register the love that buds between them as they emerge from the chapel and exchange bittersweet adieus and tender touches under the mysterious, intimate cloak of night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you for reading! It was a bit of a rocky writing process - I left it all aside for a fortnight (part of that was due to having my own interviews at Oxford!), hated writing for the third week, loved it for the fourth. Anyway, I've had a glass of wine and I'm rambling, but basically I love you and I'm so glad you're here. Hopefully it will not be an entire month until the next chapter!


	3. Hand In Glove

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Phil muses how pathetically poetic the scene is, with the backdrop of a moody thunderstorm and the billowing leaves of the tree behind them. Despite the storm getting worse they both remain motionless. Dan’s eyes are fascinatingly deep and dark, studying him with interest and flitting over his lips and jaw and neck as if asking for something, something. Phil wants to reach a hand out, shut his eyes and lean in and-"
> 
> When Dan bashfully asks Phil to come shopping with him one weekend, Phil takes the opportunity to do a bit of probing into Dan's mysterious exterior. With the help of Oscar Wilde and a nosy lesbian, he finds out a lot more than he had originally set out to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for this chapter - mentions of homophobia (imprisonment)
> 
> Hello again, dear readers! I feel it necessary to inform you that this chapter has been painfully fact checked for you. The plane tree that Phil waits under is actually there, on Park Road, in Oxford. Blackwell’s Bookshop is a real place that would have been there in 1950. The quotes about this Dan’s school are taken from things that the real Dan has said about his. Do not underestimate a humanities student with the power of fact checking and essay writing on her side!
> 
> I have drawn for you two maps explaining the geography of Oxford and how the locations for this chapter all interlink. I am well aware that I am probably the only one here who has actually been to this city, so I thought it might be helpful for those of you who are curious. I also decided to draw Dan and Phil in some 1950s gear. Both are linked below.
> 
> Map: https://et-in-cinerem-reverteris.tumblr.com/image/190484784672  
> My drawing of Dan and Phil in 'Class of 1953': https://et-in-cinerem-reverteris.tumblr.com/image/190484560497
> 
> Apologies for wittering on, but I am pleased to announce that I myself will now be a student at Oxford University starting in October of this year. I was previously afraid that if I didn’t get in, I would be too heartbroken to continue writing, but alas! You will get more chapters yet ;)
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> P.S. In 1950, 22 "bob"/shillings is worth £90/$120 in today's money, and £30 is equivalent to £2,800/$3,900.

Phil looks down at the note in his hand.

**_11a.m. 19 Nov (saturday!)_ **

**_parks road plane tree_ **

**_opposite big doors!!!_ **

The blue ink on the crumpled paper is smudged and clumsy, which is fair, Phil thinks, considering the surface on which the writer placed his pen on that night just over a week ago. Before parting ways Dan had timidly asked Phil whether he wanted to go out shopping with him the following weekend. Only because he was already going out, of course, and Phil had agreed because he was also already going out, of course, so he may as well, for convenience’s sake…

 _“Stop wriggling!”_ Dan had cried as Phil squirmed under the tickling nib of a pen, his back being used as a table for Dan to write down where and when they were going to meet. Wriggling had turned into giggling, which had then escalated into laughter so loud that a student had opened their dormitory window and shouted at them to be quiet. 

_“Oh shut up Dorothy, it’s only ten o’clock you old fart,”_ Dan had shouted back, grinning as he waved to the girl at the window.

Still laughing to themselves as they said their goodbyes, Phil had walked back home to his college with a skip in his step, excited by the fact that in just over a week’s time him and Dan would be meeting up to do some early Christmas shopping together.

Phil squints as the sun shines out from behind the plane trees, raising his hand to shield his sensitive eyes from the glaring light. He looks around at Keble’s eye-catching red brick facade, which make a refreshing change from Oxford’s trademark limestone facade. The outside walls are patterned, with stones arranged into diamonds, dots and dashes just like morse code. Adjusting his glasses, he looks closer at the coded bricks. K...T...T...K...R...R...

Having lost his concentration, he nervously checks his wristwatch. 10:55. 

Punctuality is not normally one of Phil’s virtues, but another unexpectedly early awakening had led him to spontaneously leave the college gates at 10 o’clock to go for an early morning walk, down Turl Street, left at All Saints Church, past Magdalen College and through to The Grove, a large, grassy park that had become Phil’s location of choice for calming his thoughts. On this occasion he had tried to relax by admiring the deer and feeding them acorns, but all of his thoughts anxiously meandered back to the problem of his first out-of-college meeting with Daniel.

Ever since they had last said goodbye to each other, the young English student had been obsessively mulling over the meaning behind some of Dan’s more ambiguous lines from that night.

_“...in the past people took the mickey out of me for being a ‘pouf’...”_

Phil knows exactly what the word “pouf” means; synonyms include “queer”, “gay” and “homosexual”, which are all terms he would use to describe himself. The real question lies in whether or not those derogatory statements were hurled at Dan with any deeper meaning other than just being fleeting insults, and it was this, he had decided, that he would have to do some extra investigation on.

“Hullo!”

His daydreaming is cut short by the enigmatic man in question striding toward him, and after a brief look up and down at the man’s outfit Phil is struck by how smart his companion looks. Clad in a long, black, double-breasted coat, with a dark grey fedora, complete with a pheasant’s feather, sitting on top of his chestnut curls, and a silk scarf tied in a jaunty knot around his neck, he radiates class, elegance, and shrewd sophistication.

“Daniel, I say! You’re looking very dapper!”

“I thought I may as well get dressed up for the occasion,” he smiles, looking at Phil and squinting under the bright sun. “So, where are we off to then?” 

Phil stops, confused. “I thought _you_ were the one who wanted to go shopping?”

Dan raises an eyebrow, before hastily adopting a more neutral face. “Oh, I was going to, but I um, nevermind about that. I’m not anymore.”

“Err, okay.”

The pair begin walking down Park Lane and towards Oxford’s central shopping area.

“Anyway, where _are_ we off to?” Dan asks, breaking the short silence.

“Well first of all I’d like to stop by Blackwell’s to collect a book that they’re holding for me.”

“Right.”

“Then I need to see about buying a bicycle.”

“Oh, we can pop over to Cowley Road for that. Raleigh has a shop there at number three-hundred-and-something.”

“Ah, perfect. And finally, after _that_ , I thought we could try a cafe for a spot of lunch. What do you think?”

Dan beams. “I think that sounds splendid.”

Parks Road is fairly long, giving them plenty of time to break the barrier of small talk and ease into more thoughtful conversation, which on this occasion has turned to the subject of going home for the holidays. Phil is able to glean that Dan is dreading the prospect of going back to Wokingham, a small town just outside of Reading that he hates, as it reminds him of the years he spent there at a Catholic boarding school called The Oratory. In Dan’s words, The Oratory was “hell”, full of “dickheads" who picked on him “constantly”, which left him with a “deep seated anger” which “permanently resides” in him at a constant simmer. 

While Dan laments about how the boys at his school made fun of him, Phil’s gut wrenches with anguish. How can a man so gentle and kind have been tormented by such heartless idiots? How can this poor soul have _forgiven_ the beasts who were so mercilessly picking on him? How on earth could bullies take pleasure in beating down a boy who is so mild and agreeable that he likens himself to Winnie the Pooh? Dan laughs as he tells side-splitting anecdotes alongside his tales of pain and woe, and gradually, Phil’s attention starts to slip away from the stories and towards the orator himself. Dan is witty and articulate, he is charming and eloquent, and his natural sense of humour and story-telling abilities could make a voice-over of drying paint seem worthy of a slot on BBC Radio. Something flutters in Phil’s chest, and he can’t help but grin from ear to ear as he listens to Dan speak. 

After turning right at the Bodleian Library, the pair finally reach Broad Street. Blackwell’s Bookshop is easily recognisable by the cobalt blue exterior, guarding an attractive array of books, plays, letters and diaries for students to flick through, ponder over, and argue about. As the pair step inside, a brass doorbell rings gaily throughout the shop floor.

“So, what is it you’re here to pick up then, Mr. English Literature?” Dan asks as they navigate through the shop, passing by bookshelves that run from floor to ceiling.

“It’s a 1890 copy of _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ , posted all the way from America. I put in an order through a collector’s magazine and they’ve been holding it here for a few days.”

“Blimey. How much is that costing you?”

Phil sighs. “Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

“Oooh no, I very much do,” Dan teases. “Go on then, out with it! How much?” 

Phil turns back to face his companion, who can’t resist making a guess. 

“Ten bob?”

He shakes his head.

“More? Christ! Twenty bob?”

“Up.”

“...Twenty-five?”

“Down.

“Twenty-two?” 

The guilty party nods silently. 

“ _Twenty-two shillings?_ For a musty old book?” The corners of Dan’s mouth turn upwards with a mischievous smirk. “Well, I suppose it _is_ Oscar Wilde.”

“Exactly,” Phil retorts as they approach the shop counter. “Now shush for a moment.”

Dan rolls his eyes at the shushing and skulks off while Phil hands over an inordinate amount of money for a rare book about 19th century homosexuals. After obtaining his precious cargo he finds Dan browsing the shelves of the fiction section. 

He decides that now is a good time for a bit of probing. 

“Do you read much?”

The brunette continues to scan the bookshelves. “Not really, unfortunately, but I do have a few favourite authors that I tend to return to.”

“Such as?”

A moment of silence.

“Lord Byron, for one.”

“Good choice. Great poetry - and what a fascinating life!”

“Mmmm. He definitely got up to some shenanigans on his Grand Tour.”

 _With lots of young men_ , Phil thinks. He decides to probe further.

“Anybody else?”

Dan slips him a quizzical look before picking up a random hardback and flicking through it.

“T. S. Eliot.”

“Another good choice!”

“How about you then? “Who’s your favourite author?” Dan queries, seeming slightly irritated. Phil holds his recent purchase up to his face, peeping out from behind the cover. “Ah,” he smiles, “I suppose I should have guessed.”

After making their way through the maze of shelves they eventually locate the exit, and as Phil walks through the door that Dan kindly holds open for him, he notices that the other man takes a deep breath.

“So, on the subject of our friend Oscar - what do you make of his trial?”

Phil nearly trips over the pavement at the mention of the trials, which are still a risky topic even sixty years later. Although he has a hunch about the real reason why Dan is asking for his opinions on the trials, these are still untested waters; if Phil has read too much into Dan’s favourite authors, placed too much emphasis on the abuse hurled at him by the boys at The Oratory, focused too much on Dan’s meticulous sense of style and theatrical mannerisms and soft hand that felt surprisingly affectionate as it touched his, then this could all be over for him, this could be the start of rumours that destroy his life, exclusion that breaks his heart, and a loneliness that turns it cold. 

Phil’s hands are cold, and he wishes that a certain pair of palms could warm them up. 

Sod it. He may as well give it a try.

“I think it’s a disgusting crime,” he begins. “I don’t understand how somebody could be so vindictive. To take a man to court for an act which hurts nobody, affects nobody, and is only the business of those who are involved, is utterly inhuman. Oscar Wilde was one of the _greatest_ literary, classical and philosophical minds that this nation has ever seen, and yet he was put in prison and left to waste for what. Gross indecency. It’s an outrage! So what if he had written books and poems about,” he shrugs, “homosexual love? Those writings were works of art. It is stupid, ignorant and close-minded to take issue with it.” There’s a pause as he catches his breath, having worked himself up a little bit too much. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to rant.”

Phil shoots Dan a nervous glance as they turn left onto High Street. To his surprise, Dan regards him with a look of gentle admiration, mouth smiling feebly and eyes locked onto him in a state of awe.

“You know, in all my eighteen years of living I don’t think I’ve ever met someone that I’ve agreed with more.”

Phil stifles a grin, bashfully looking towards the pavement, and silence falls as they walk down High Street. The quietness isn’t uncomfortable or awkward, nor is it born out of having nothing to say; instead it is peaceful, harmonious, and gives Phil an opportunity to think about what the pair of them had just exchanged.

“I’ve grown awfully hungry,” Dan pipes up, breaking the silence. “I want to show you this adorable little cafe just down the road. Let me take you there, I’m sure you’ll enjoy it. It’s ever so quaint.”

A minute or so later they arrive at a decadent-looking tea room, fronted by a rather striking neoclassical exterior that’s a little sore on the eyes. As they come into the warmth Phil is immediately taken aback by the marble pillars, chandeliers and wood-panelled ceiling that decorate the large, luxurious venue, home to a bustling atmosphere of students neglecting their work in favour of an early lunch and wealthy retired couples sharing overpriced sandwiches. Following a short wait at the front of house they are taken to a four-man table tucked into a corner.

“Here’s a fact for you. This was the first coffee house in England,” Dan declares, as he shucks his jacke and sets his fedora down onto the table. He saunters over to Phil’s chair, stopping to pat him on the shoulder. “Just popping to the little boy’s room, I won’t be a moment. Take a look at the menu, choose anything you fancy. It’s on me.” With a smooth wink, he departs. Phil watches fondly as Dan snakes through the tables, observing the man’s heavy gait and sloped posture. Quite a juxtaposition between the eloquence of his articulation and gentle face, he thinks. 

Before he can ease into his chair and relish the opportunity to process the day’s events thus far, a familiar voice suddenly cries out his name.

“Philip! Fancy seeing you here old chap.”

Bursting into view come John and Mary, who promptly set down copious bags of shopping on the now over-crowded table.

“Morning all!” Phil beams, pulling out a chair as his friends sit down either side of him and shuffle up almost comically close to the table. “What brings you to The Grand Cafe this fine morning?” 

John takes off his leather jacket and hangs it on the back of his chair. “We’ve just been out shopping, haven’t we?” 

“Mmm, I can see that,” Phil replies flatly. “But what for? Anything in particular?”

Mary opens her handbag to reveal a miniature tawny-coloured box, which she sets down on the wooden table before sliding it over towards Phil. “It’s for the wife,” she proclaims, resting her head on her hands as she smiles. “It’s our one-month anniversary next week, so I thought I may as well treat the old girl with something special.”

John groans. “Mary, I’ve already told you that you can’t _have_ a _one month anniversary_ ! The word comes from the Latin ‘annus’, meaning year, and ‘versus’, meaning ‘return’. Get it wrong _one_ more time and I’ll tell the Oxford dons to barr you from ever studying English again!”

“For God’s sake John, you’re starting to sound like your husband!” She scoffs, rolling her eyes towards Phil as she turns to him for a reaction. 

Preferring to avoid the conflict, Phil instead takes a look inside the box to see what could be for Mary’s “wife”. The hinge of the top lid pops open, and concealed in the white satin lining is a gold ring. Adorned with a sizable green stone surrounded by a cluster of several smaller, clear gems around the edge, it twinkles attractively under the dazzling lights of the cafe as he turns the box from side to side. Phil doesn’t know much about gems and jewelry, but he has a feeling that this must have been fairly expensive. And such a pretty ring! But for who?

“Come on Lester, back me up here. You know how to speak Latin. I’m correct, aren’t I?”

“Uhh, yeah, you’re right,” he stutters, blinking in confusion. He examines the box again. “Who’s this ring for?”

Mary and John exchange a look.

“I-It’s for Beth, obviously,” the black haired woman replies, as if Phil were a fool for not understanding. “What other special woman do I have in my life?”

_Beth? Special woman?_

“Come on Phil! Don’t tell me you had no idea!” She laughs, blushing as she folds her arms and scoots in further still. Phil can feel the embarrassment creep over him. Mary? In a relationship with...Beth?

**_“We’re the same, me and you.”_ **

Mary’s words from secondary school come flooding back to him. So _that’s_ what she meant! But that means she knows that Phil is-

The ring is quickly snatched away and pocketed by its owner, who has begun to look slightly sheepish. “Anyway, enough about this old thing. So, what are you out and about for?”

“Oh, I’m just er, running some errands with Dan.”

“Ahhhh, Daniel! How charming. I’m glad you two are finally getting to know one another.” Mary locks her fingers together to use as a chin rest, which, as Phil has come to realise, means that he has suddenly become the object of great interest. 

“W...what do you mean by that?”

Mary’s head sinks lower as she gives Phil a knowing look.

“Darling, Daniel thinks you’re the _bee’s knees_. He hasn’t shut up about you ever since he first caught a glimpse of your pretty little face when we had our first ever lecture together.”

First ever lecture? But that was back in October. _Dan_ , talking about _him_ , before they even met? Phil traces his mind back to that day where he emerged from his first lecture talking to Mary about how nasal their new professor’s voice was - or was this the professor that kept sneezing? Regardless, Dan probably caught sight of him then. But to have noticed Phil so early on, and only have approached him a few weeks ago? Has he seriously been doting for that long? 

Electric blood courses through Phil’s veins as his brain runs a hundred miles a minute. Dan. Talking about him. To Mary. Secretly. For weeks. Tempting theories flirt with Phil’s brain. 

_“...what do you make of Wilde’s trial?”_

_“Not that I’m... stalking you or anything”_

_“... come and sit down here with me…”_

Phil has never been more bewildered in his entire life, despite everything now making perfect sense.

Mary and Beth are...together.

Bill and John are probably also together.

Mary is a homosexual.

Mary has known that Phil was also a homosexual ever since they first met.

Dan and Mary have (somehow) become friends.

Dan has become... _interested_ in him.

And Mary has known about it all this time.

He shifts absent-mindedly, still staring at the floor with a blank expression. Despite these revelations, Phil wishes - he wishes he was even allowed to wish - that everything about Dan was now leading itself to one alluring conclusion, down one inevitable path. But the path is dark and twisted, covered in rotten leaves and bracken, and the _bracken_ , Phil remembers, to the tune of Du Maurier’s _Rebecca_ , “the bracken had entered into an alien marriage with a host of nameless shrubs, poor, bastard things that clung about their roots as though conscious of their spurious origin. A lilac had mated-” 

He stifles a choke.

“Phil? Hello? Are you alright? You went very pale, and then very red. I hope you’re not having hot flushes, you’re too early to be going through your menopause.”

“Menopause?”

Mary cackles. “Ah, my humour is lost on the both of you. Anyway, look sharp, Dan’s here.”

Phil raises his head to see Dan weaving his way through the tables. The sleeves on his white shirt have been rolled up, and his tie is loosened slightly. All Phil can do is sit and stare, with his cheeks a shameful shade of scarlet.

“‘Ello ‘ello ello! What a pleasure to see you here!” He beams at Mary before turning to John. “Hullo there, I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Daniel, pleased to make your acquaintance.” As the pair shake hands Phil is obliterated even further at the charming sight of Dan’s genteel formalities. This man, who is so handsome, so well educated, and so polite and witty and well dressed, thinks that he, Philip Michael Lester, is the “bees knees”? He’ll have to ask Mary for details later.

Lunch is a spectacle and a half. It emerges that Dan’s family is wealthy, very wealthy - to the point where he is borderline aristocratic - and he offers to pay for every sandwich, cake, and biscuit, every cup of exotic tea and later every glass of expensive champagne that the waiters bring out on lavish trays. Dan woos their company with tale after tale, joke after joke, and by the time John and Mary have to leave Phil finds himself completely fixated on Dan, eyes following him with an affectionate gaze that still lingers when the quartet drunkenly stumble out of the cafe and go their separate ways.

* * *

The sunshine dips behind the horizon and the temperature lulls itself back to freezing. After arriving at Raleigh on Cowley Road the two students spend an hour or so wandering around the shop and making up characters for each of the bicycles, conjuring up personalities with voices and poses. By the time they’re threatened with being locked inside as the shop closes for the day, the pair of them have finally decided on a bike for Phil to buy. Or, as it turns out, for Dan to buy for Phil. All £30 worth. The curly-haired boy had insisted, claiming that the Clubman Model 25 was the best bike in the entire shop and that it would be an early birthday present, and that his parents had given him far too much money to spend over Michaelmas, and besides, he wanted to buy it for him, so that was that. Phil had first timidly protested, then seriously protested, until he let himself be spoiled by this increasingly confusing man who was now offering to pay for his expenses. Maybe it was the champagne. Maybe it wasn’t. It was probably the champagne when Dan insisted they sit on the bike and ride it home together.

“Dan, this is _not_ going to work, I’m telling you.”

“Oh, don’t be such a bore! Hurry up, get on! It’ll be getting dark soon and it’s too far to walk. You have no choice,” Dan announces, triumphant as he puts Phil’s book inside a leather bag attached to the back of the bike and swings a leg over the navy blue frame. 

“I don’t see how I’m going to fit on here. This isn’t a tandem bicycle.”

“It’s easy!” He assures with a gratified smile. “My brother and I used to do it all the time when we were young. If you sit down on _this_ part of the seat, put your feet on the lower frame _here_ , and hold onto _this_ bottom part of the handlebars, you’ll be absolutely fine.”

Remaining dubious, Phil shuffles over to his recent purchase before staring long and hard at it, trying to figure out how to avoid cracking his head open.

“Stop dilly-dallying you wet rag. Look, do you want some help getting on?” Dan reaches out a hand and touches Phil’s forearm reassuringly, causing it to seize up.

“No! No, I’ll be fine!” He blurts out, painfully obvious in his embarrassment and cursing to himself as he realises that they’re going to have to sit very close together for this to work. “Okay, how am I supposed to do this again?” 

Dan shuffles back on the seat before patting the front part with his right hand, indicating the part where Phil is supposed to sit. It doesn’t look very comfortable, but by this point he’s past caring. Trying to suppress his nerves, he swings his left leg over the bike and grips the bottom part of the handlebars. 

“Like this?”

“Yes, except that you’re forgetting the most important part.”

“What?!”

“Bottom on seat! Then we can set off.”

Phil really has no reason to huff, but agitation makes him do so anyway. He sits down on the seat, shifting uneasily in the knowledge that Dan is only a centimetre behind. God. If only he weren’t so awkward.

“Chocks away!” 

Suddenly there is movement as Dan begins to pedal up the pavement and across onto the road. 

“Aagghhh!” He yells, convinced that they’re going to crash.

“Stay calm Philip,” the other boy shouts into the howling wind, before inching closer to the ginger lad, lips nearly brushing against his ears. “Don’t worry,” he coos, “you’ll be safe in my hands.” 

The effect of those words is enough to make Phil settle down instantly, and keep mum as he watches the empty streets as they pass by. The sky’s blue hues have faded to a cool evening grey, with dark, speckled clouds stretching across it. Breaking the silvery sheet is a crisp, tangerine strip where the setting sun illuminates the horizon, peppered by bursts of soft, glowing clouds that streak across the skyline. Nostalgia bares its warm embrace, and Phil is transported back to one of the family holidays that he used to go on as a child where each day came to a close in the back of the family motorcar, staring out of the window at the spectacular sunsets that shone over endless fields of wheat. He feels at home. He feels safe.

Out of tiredness, or, dare he admit it, out of relaxation, Phil has subconsciously leaned backwards enough for his spine to be pressed up against Dan’s chest. He’s not sure quite how it happened, but alas, it has. Earlier on in the day he might have leapt forward and apologised, but now? Now he’s too sleepy to react, and anyway, at this point he can’t bring himself to worry about these sorts of things anymore. Dan’s not complaining, and there’s nobody around to see it happen. 

They cycle past the empty shops and illuminated houses until they pass Magdalene College and reach the High Street again. This time it’s dark, and the Christmas lights decorating the shops have slowly begun to turn on. 

“This is pretty isn’t it?” Dan hums behind him, voice surprisingly low and mellow in contrast to his often shrill tone. 

“Mmmmm.”

“I love Christmas, it’s one of my favourite times of year. I love getting festive when December starts, with all the lights and mince pies and scented candles. I do find it stressful shopping for other people though. I always feel like I’m going to put my foot in it. And of course there’s the part where everything begins to get horribly fake and commercial... but hey, lets not think about that now. Right now everything is just perfect.”

“Mmm. I agree.”

“I’m considering joining the choir this year,” Dan continues. “I haven’t sung in a choir since I was thirteen. I do miss it occasionally. Ah well. We’ll have to see.”

Phil turns his head around. “So you can act _and_ sing?”

Dan’s laugh is short and shaky. “I suppose I can. Luckily there’s no singing in this play though. God. I don’t even want to think about the damned thing.”

“Why, has something gone wrong?”

“No. Well, not really.” There’s a brief silence. The shop displays sparkle as they sail past; newspaper vendors and tea rooms and tuck shops and travel agencies all closing in preparation for Sunday. “The problem is that I’m beginning to get rather stressed about it the whole ordeal. There’s only a couple of weeks left until we’re meant to be performing, but I’ve got a lot of work to complete for Music and rehearsals are starting to take up a lot of my time, and to make matters worse this sodding roommate that I’ve got keeps taking up my side of our study room and I’m not too sure that he really likes me anymore and I just…,” he sighs, “I don’t know. It’s an intense period, to say the least.”

“Hmmm.” 

Phil turns his attention back towards the shops as they make their way towards his college. As they cruise down the High Street, the faint sound of music begins to waft through the cars and the chatter. It gets louder as they cycle onwards, until they come up to a bakery where a small brass band stands outside in the cold, playing a tune that Phil knows but can’t name. There’s a small crowd gathered outside, and as the song finishes, people cheer.

“Dan.”

“Mmm?”

“If you’re worrying about Christmas shopping, why don’t you come with me? I was planning on going on the first weekend of December. I’m a master at choosing presents for people, so I’m sure I’ll be able to help. And I’d be happy to. I owe you for today.”

“Oh...than-”

“And about getting work done for Music, you could always use my room. It’s not very large but it does have a lot of desk space, and I don’t have any pesky roommates that would get on your nerves. Just ask. I won’t say no, I mean, how could I? You’d be very welcome. Tell the porter you’re here to see Phil at room seventeen, staircase nine. He’ll let you in.”

The other man doesn’t say a word. As they cycle down the narrow path into Catte Street, across the cobbled square host to the Radcliffe Camera, a soft drizzle begins to fall from the gloomy, blackening clouds. 

Dan clears his throat. “Thank you, Phil,” he begins in a low voice. “Seriously. I shall have to take you up on that offer. When can I come over? Would next Friday be okay?”

“As I said, any time.”

“Are you sure I wouldn’t be disturbing you?”

“No, not at all. Dan, I’m offering. I wouldn’t have done so if I didn’t want to.”

“Hmm, okay,” he mutters, finally surrendering. They cycle on in silence until they reach the street home to Phil’s college. “Well, here we are then,” Dan announces, slowing the pace to a halt as they disembark, continuing on in silence as they approach the gargantuan entrance to the 14th-century college building. 

Phil leans against the cold, carved, limestone walls that slant towards the dark wooden doors as Dan holds the bike with a large, strong hand. Phil looks up. The boy’s curls are slightly disheveled under his grey fedora, and his coat is covered with a haze of tiny raindrops. A satisfied smirk sits on his lips, and in the low light Phil can see that his dimpled cheeks are glowing a faint shade of pink.

“Thank you for today,” Dan begins solemnly.

“It was my pleasure. Plus you paid for most of it anyway.” 

“Hah! I guess I did. Well, I suppose I should give this back to you and trot along back to Keble.” There’s a hint of resignation in his voice. “Come on, go inside. You’ll get soaked if you stand out here any longer.” 

The bicycle frame is icy as Phil takes hold of it, raindrops spattering onto his wet hands as the downpour becomes stronger. Water drips into his eyes, rolling down his face like tears. Phil muses how pathetically poetic the scene is, with the backdrop of a moody thunderstorm and the billowing leaves of the tree behind them, wind roaring as the rain gushes down. He looks back up at Dan. Despite the storm getting worse they both remain motionless, looking into each other’s eyes, searching. Dan’s eyes are fascinatingly deep and dark, studying him with interest and flitting over his lips and jaw and neck as if asking for something, _something_. Phil wants to reach a hand out, shut his eyes and lean in and-

Dan flinches. An elderly woman shuffles past on the pavement behind them. Closing his lids with a smile of unfortunate yet humorous abdication, he takes two steps back as he maneuvers around the bicycle and out onto the pavement. “See you next week then. Cheerio!” With a salute, he turns around and marches off back to his own college.

Phil shivvers in the cool rain, flashing his companion the same smile. “Cheerio!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: “haha yeah this chapter will probably (FINALLY) be a shorter one, maybe 2-3k, nothing too taxing for my readers"
> 
> *checks word count at the end*
> 
> *over 5000*
> 
> ;___;
> 
> I hope this wasn’t too convoluted lol


	4. Louder Than Bombs/Rubber Ring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil tells himself that Dan's only coming to his room to study, but in reality it feels like so much more important than that. After an hour of working they both begin to get tired, and then oh look, there's only one bed...
> 
> A few nights later, Phil hears a knock that's loud enough to wake him up from his slumber. When he opens the door a mildly tipsy Dan is standing there with a smile on his lips and asking him if would like to go on a midnight walk around the city. Bottle of whiskey in hand they walk around the streets, singing, laughing and playfighting as they go, until suddenly it all gets too much for Dan to bear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's installent will be split into two parts - chapter 4, and chapter 4.5. You will be able to tell when we move from the first installment to the second by the break in the page and the (slight) change of scene. As I was writing part two of this chapter I suddenly realised, to my horror, that The Phantom of the Opera’s musical was written in 1986, and thus it is not historically possible for Dan to know it. Unfortunately by the time this came to my attention the inclusion of the song had become the crux of the sub-chapter, thanks to me being completely and utterly possessed by and addicted to the video below from 16:40 onwards.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G_T7r2_OINQ&list=PL8ERziD-KqkLCuvZxOyQXV8bJuD8lzNNZ&index=10&t=0s
> 
> These chapters are rather more saucy than the others - but not too saucy. Sauce in moderation is more my thing. If you’re a returning reader thank you ever so much for keeping up with my story, and if you are new, I hope you have enjoyed it thus far :)

Chapter 4 - Louder Than Bombs

The passing of time, and all of its sickening crimes, is making Phil nervous again.

Sitting sideways at the top of his bed with his feet swinging off the edge like a bored schoolboy, he idly fumbles with the pages of an open book as he stares into space, waiting. 

Last Sunday he had promised Dan that he could use his room as a space to get homework done. Tonight, the gravity of the situation has only just begun to dawn on him. He imagines the scene with a quickened heartbeat; Dan sitting only a foot away, using his chair, working at his desk and writing with his pens, Dan pacing around his room, scrutinising his photographs, flicking through his records and reading the titles of his books. Phil doesn’t know how to prepare himself. Meeting up in public is  _ one  _ thing, but a private visit to his room feels like quite another.

He laughs out loud at himself.  _ Private visit _ ? Dan’s only coming to  _ study  _ for Christ’s sake _. _

Speaking of studying, he has his own work to attend to. Lying on his lap is a copy of Beowulf, deliberately planted there to create the impression of a student deeply engaged in a spot of serious reading. Unfortunately for Phil Beowulf has been unable to capture his imagination, and so instead he has spent the last ten minutes or so staring at the contents of his hastily tidied room. His desk is decluttered, his bed has been made, and all the odd pairs of socks have been picked off the floor and put away in preparation for Dan’s visit. 

All is silent bar the low hum of his desk lamp. It’s a quiet Friday evening, and the normally raucous quad now only echoes sporadic bursts of hushed chatter. Tonight’s sky is peppered with clouds that pass the moon at random intervals, periodically obscuring a strange halo that encircles the bright rock in a mysterious reddish glow. The curtains lie wide open, and a streak of moonlight falls on the pinboard opposite his bed. Littered with cinema tickets, clippings from environmental magazines, ripped out pages and uncashed cheques, the most recent addition to the board is a cluster of pictures he took of the photography club on an impromptu walk by the River Cherwell. The top photograph shows Bill squinting at the sun while Mary gives Beth a precarious looking piggyback ride, both of them smiling as John holds his palms up to the toppling ensemble and posing as tourists do next to the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Phil remembers how the group of them skimmed stones across the muddy water, competing to see who could get the furthest, until Beth had beat Bill’s expert hand with a fluke stone that skipped so far into the distance that none of them could tell where it had landed. He thinks of that day with a smile. Good times.

_ *rat-tat-tat* _

At last! Springing off his mattress he dashes towards the mirror, spruces up his quiff, takes in a deep breath and opens the door.

“Hallo! Ho-”

Phil is interrupted as Dan comes crashing into the room, stumbling past him and lurching towards the desk as a large pile of books, folders and papers fall from his arms and scatter across the surface in a heap. He releases a long sigh, and then turns around to face his host with a sheepish smile.

“Sorry for bursting in here like that. My arms were starting to get cramped under the weight of all these books, and I had to put them down. Anyway, how are you?” 

“I’m fine but err, quick question,” Phil starts. “Why didn’t you just use a bag?” 

Dan’s smile fades and his eyes glaze over, mouth opening and closing as his brows furrow in confusion. “Now that you mention it, I um, don’t know why on earth I didn’t think of that.” He throws his hands into the air. “God knows what’s up with me.” Embarrassed, he turns around and begins to organise the jumbled papers.

“What’s all this you’ve got here then?” Phil asks, flopping down onto the bed and leaning his back against the wall as he watches Dan.

“It’s mostly some notes about Schubert. We have to study the last few decades of his life, so I bought a few books from home with me that I thought I’d be able to flick through. And um,” he picks up a piece of paper, “I’ve also got to work towards a portfolio of compositions, so really I’ve got a mountain of stuff to do.”

“Sounds daunting.”

“Mmmm.” He sits down in the chair next to Phil’s desk, adjusting the angle of the lamp as he kicks off his shoes. “So,” he continues, turning around, “what are  _ you  _ up to then?”

Phil nonchalantly waves his book in the air. “Just Beowulf.” 

Dan scoffs. “ _ Just  _ Beowulf? Come on, Phil! It’s only one of the most  _ important pieces of English literature of all time _ !” Shaking his head in disbelief, he turns back around. “‘ _ Just Beowulf’ _ ... Jesus.”

After a couple of minutes of silence Phil suddenly realises that Dan has started working. As in  _ actually  _ working. In the past they had both joked about being chronic procrastinators, and so Phil had predicted that the night would end up with them talking about books, politics or musicals instead of doing homework. He’s a bit surprised that Dan was serious about wanting to use his room just to study in, and to be truthful, he’s also a little disappointed. 

To make matters worse, as the other boy works away Phil finds himself unable to concentrate on the book in front of him; no matter how hard he tries to focus, all thoughts invariably trace back to his companion. He examines the back of his neck, the collar of his shirt, the knit of his jumper and how it falls on his lanky build. Dan will occasionally sing or hum a tune to himself, scribble something down and then repeat that same harmony with a few added notes, moving the fingers on his right hand as if he were in front of a piano. It’s a peaceful sight, captivatingly peaceful, and his concentration trickles down the drain. To hell with reading anyway. 

His thoughts meander back to a familiar daydream; Dan’s life in Wokingham. Phil’s imagination frequently returns to a scene of Dan sitting in a lavish study, playing the piano as golden sun leaks through an open window, balmy air wafting inside on a sweet summer evening. In tonight’s incarnation Phil envisions himself there sitting on the wooden floor, pondering over verses of romantic poetry, reading aloud a particularly pleasant stanza to Dan who would glance up from the piano and give him one of those warm, glowing smiles where his dimples make him look utterly angeli-

It’s a silly dream really, very silly indeed, and Phil feels ashamed for ever having dreamt it. With a glum sense of self-restraint, he turns back to his homework and tries extra-hard to concentrate on it. 

An hour or so passes in the little room on staircase nine, and after a while Phil finds himself lulled into the lethargic contentment that only rewards avid readers, and to his amazement he realises that Anglo-Saxon poetry about Danish kings and mythical beasts isn’t as tedious as he had previously dreaded. 

Satisfied with his progress, he bookmarks his page and closes the book with a thump. Dan’s neck twitches at the sound, and, as if abruptly reminded of the existence of the outside world, he drops his pen, massages his hands, and stretches his long, slender arms out into the air behind him. 

“Right, I’m throwing in the towel or else I shall die of a Schu-verload,” he exhales, leaning backwards and cracking his spine on the back of the chair.

“Schu...verload?” 

Dan swivels around to give him a dry scowl. “Schubert-overload, you fool.”

“Oh!” Phil exclaims, and the pair of them erupt into laughter. “Sorry, my brain has just been fried by one-thousand year old poetry. I’m feeling a bit,” he yawns, “a bit sleepy.”

Getting up from his chair and stretching some more, Dan paces over to the window and peers out of it before unhinging the lock and propping it open. Cold air sails through the room, ruffling his curls as he stares out into the dark night.

“Nice view you’ve got from up here.”

“Thanks,” Phil quips, fully aware of the fact that his room faces into a fairly dull courtyard.

“I’m serious. I think it’s grand that you’ve got a view of the chapel. It’s terribly romantic.” He steps away from the window, attention turning to a nearby shelf which houses a small record collection that appears to spark his enthusiasm. “You’ve got some superb albums here. Handel, Tchaikovsky, Chopin…” He looks over to where Phil has propped himself up against his headboard. “I respect those choices.” 

“Thanks, although I mainly put them on for background noise. I’m not a major classical geek or anything.”

The other boy guffaws. “Like me?”

“No, not like you,” Phil tuts, and his pretend frown turns into another yawn.

“Busy day?” Dan grins.

“Busy day, busy week, busy month. Hectic month, in fact.”

Nodding in solidarity Dan sits down at the bottom of Phil’s bed and reclines with his back against the wall, closing his eyes with a faint smile still on his face. As the pair of them sit in silence Phil's own eyelids get heavier, and budding in his chest is a drowsy desire to snuggle up into a cosy cocoon and burrow into the bedcovers, falling deeper and deeper into the comfort of his soft, warm sheets...

When he awakes, Dan is staring straight at him.

“Hmmm, what? Did I fall asleep?”

“Quite possibly. God, I know I’m about to.” Dan’s eyelids flicker downwards as his smile fades. He looks exhausted, really exhausted, and Phil feels like there’s something he should do about it.

“Hey.” 

Dan’s shoots up. Phil shuffles across his narrow bed and moves closer to the wall, patting the small space next to him in invitation. The other boy’s eyes widen for a moment before he melts into a soft, sleepy smile, then gets up slowly and gingerly sits on the bed, lies down next to Phil, then shuffles around so that he’s facing...facing  _ him _ ...and then closes his eyes as if it’s nothing.

Phil blinks in confusion. His more logical side  _ knows  _ that sleeping on the same bed as a friend is something that people do without batting an eyelid, but next to Dan it feels different - symbolic, even. Regardless, or perhaps because of that feeling, he shuffles round to face the other man and observes his sleeping face, his pale skin, his dark freckles, his thick brown eyebrows and long brown eyelashes. 

Suddenly, the eyelashes open.

“Phil?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For letting me use your room to study in, you doofus,” he teases, words coming out slightly sluggish.

“Mmmm, that’s alright. It’s the least I can do considering how you spoiled me last Saturday. I think  _ I  _ should be the one thanking  _ you _ .”

Dan shifts slightly, and Phil feels their shins are now pressed up against each other. His soul sings. If he were more awake his heart might be racing in an exhilarated panic, but in his tired state all he can do is feel strangely happy. Happy...and cold.

“Why on earth is it so freezing in here?” he asks, confused and a little dazed, and as he props himself up on his elbow he sees that the window has been left open. “Da-an!”

“What?” he whines through the pillow.

“You didn’t close the window!”

“Close it then.”

Phil groans, flopping back down onto the bed. “I can’t be bothered!”

“Well in that case we’ll just have to huddle together like penguins then,” and with his eyes still closed Dan moves across the bed until their faces are centimetres apart.  _ Now  _ Phil’s heart starts to quicken.

“I can’t, it’s too much.”

Dan’s eyes fly open as Phil gets up from the bed and walks over to the window. Worried that he’s made a deadly mistake he buries his head into the pillow and waits for Phil to order him out of his room, out into the cold, out into the darkness for a long, lonely walk back to his own miserable dormitory.

The window clunks shut, and then the bed becomes a lot heavier. Dan removes his face from the pillow to see Phil gazing down at him.

“I thought…I thought you were about to abandon me.”

“What? Abandon you? Where would I go?” He chuckles. “I was cold, that’s all. I wouldn’t leave you here like that.” 

Dan beams up at him with flushed cheeks. “You  _ still  _ cold?”

A smirk lets itself out. “Maybe.”

Dan unfurls his right arm across the width of the bed and lifts his left arm into the air. Phil slowly begins to panic. A hug? Is he pulling him in for a hug? A hug with Dan and his arms wrapped around him holding him lying there together on his bed a-

Okay. 

Enough.

Phil looks back at Dan. His stare is dark and strong, profound and meaningful, and it makes him feel safe. He takes the plunge and lowers himself down. Dan pulls him into a hug, arms wrapping around his back and drawing him close to his chest. Phil can hear the low thump of Dan’s heartbeat and smell the warm, musky scent that lingers on his jumper. He places his arms on Dan’s ribcage, fingers fiddling with the cable knit patterns. The pair adjust themselves slightly, moving shoulders, moving heads, moving their legs and intertwining them together, drifting off to the wide, sleepy sea in a boat built for two.

* * *

Chapter 4.5 - Rubber Ring

Phil had been asleep.

Phil  _ had  _ been asleep, until  _ somebody  _ had knocked on his door. 

Phil had been planning on going  _ back  _ to sleep, until through the still of night he had heard a familiar voice whispering his name.

Shaking the sleep from his bones, Phil opens his curtains, stumbles towards the door, turns the key in the lock and prepares himself for whatever lies waiting for him in the hallway.

“Dan?”

“G’d evening”

“W...what are you doing here?”

“Couldn’t sleep. Fancy a stroll?”

“A  _ stroll _ ? Are you insane?” Phil repeats mockingly, shivering from the cool air in the hallway. “Dan, it’s...” He checks his wrist, and frowns when he sees that it’s naked.

“1 a.m. on a Wednesday night? I know. So, what d’you say?”

Really, he should say no. He really should. It’s one in the morning, it’s a weeknight, he’s got lectures tomorrow and the weather outside is probably cold enough to freeze him to his core within five minutes. He should say no, he really should, but there’s something about roaming the shadowy streets at midnight with Dan that’s far too exciting to turn down.

“Give me thirty seconds and I’ll be right with you.”

Diving back into his room to grab the first items of clothing that he sees, Phil can’t help but feel slightly frenzied. When Dan was in his room last it had ended with the pair of them falling asleep entangled in each other’s arms. Phil hadn’t forgotten that. He had far from forgotten that. Memories of that night had floated through the air ever since, landing on him with the delicate wings of a wistful daydream that left him blushing as it flew away. Now, to both his surprise and his delight, this same boy is knocking on his door and asking for his accompaniment on a ridiculous small-hour escapade.

As he wraps his scarf around his collar, he looks across the room to the moonlit part of his pinboard. One particular piece of paper stands out, and he moves in closer to read it - it’s a quote scribbled onto a scrap of blue paper.

“I looked up at the mass of signs and stars in the night sky and laid myself open for the first time to the benign indifference of the world." 

How strange. He’s had that Albert Camus line scribbled onto a piece of paper for years now, and yet never in his life has it seemed so appropriate as it does right this moment. With a peculiar feeling of rebirth he thrusts his feet into the nearest pair of shoes he can find, and opens the door into the corridor. 

Dan is leaning against the wall of the hallway. The pose strikes him as familiar, and with a shock of nostalgia Phil is transported back to the night when the two of them first met. He remembers how Dan stood in the doorway to the photography club - arms folded, ankles crossed, sly smirk plastered to his mischievous face. How things have changed between them since then. 

Phil locks the door, pockets the key, and when he turns around Dan is staring absentmindedly at the floor with his eyes boring holes into nothingness. Suddenly he blinks, looks up, and his eyes instantly meet Phil’s with a vivid, bittersweet gaze that makes everything else in the world feel like it’s falling away.

It feels like the passing touch of a stranger’s hand on the small of his back at a lavish party. It feels like the shock of a cherry liqueur that stuns the taste buds and leaves behind a decadent, sumptuous and moreish aftertaste. It feels like the sight of a full moon from the balcony of his Grecian holiday home, wind rustling through the leaves as the waves whisper beneath him. Phil’s heart melts... and then he realises. 

He just might be in love.

“What are you thinking about?” Dan asks, breaking the silence as his eyelids hang low. Phil looks at those dark, pretty eyelashes on those dark, pretty eyes, rolls his shoulders back, and sighs.

“Mmmm, nothing.” 

He turns to walk down the narrow hallway with Dan following close behind. They push through the heavy wooden door at the end of the hallway and descend onto the staircase, making their way down the steps that lead out of the building.

“So tell me then, how  _ did  _ you manage to get up to my room?” Phil inquires. “Did Rapunzel let her hair down over the Fellow’s Garden wall for you to use as a rope to climb up?”

Dan laughs. “No, not quite.”

“Well go on then, how did you do it? Surely the main college door would have been locked?”

“Not tonight apparently, I pushed it, and lo and behold it was open. There wasn’t a porter there either. Poor sod’s probably raiding the college’s wine cellar,” he adds with a chuckle.

“Dan! The porters aren’t drunkards.”

“I know I know, but it must be bloody boring just sitting there all night. I know I’d raid the stash if I were them.”

“What, and allow unruly boys who can’t settle down to come and break in to the college grounds? You’d make a  _ great  _ porter.”

“That is why  _ I _ am  _ not  _ a porter, but a devilish, wicked boy who breaks into colleges so he can sneak into other boys’ bedrooms,” he smiles.

Phil’s mind almost shuts down at that latter part. Out of sheer bewilderment his brain decides to respond by bellowing out “you are a saucy boy” in his best Lord Capulet impression, which has the effect of making Dan double over into a fit of laughter, tears streaming down his face as he wheezes the word “saucy” through silent giggles. 

As they exit the building they’re struck by the biting December cold. Careful to tread lightly across the echoing stone slabs, they stealth across the smaller quad that Phil’s bedroom faces into, creep past the chapel, and step through to the larger quad wherein lies a perfectly-maintained square lawn.

“Hey!” Dan whispers.

“What?”

“Shall we walk across the grass?”

“What? Dan! We can’t do that!” Phil hisses. “We’ll get caught and fined and-”

“Oh  _ stop it _ ! We’re already breaking the rules by sneaking out past 10 p.m. Tarnishing an overly-pampered lawn isn’t any worse.”

Before Phil has time to protest, Dan has already set foot on the forbidden pasture.

“Dan stop! For fuc-”

“Catch me if you can!” 

The boy runs around in circles as Phil loiters on the edge, deliberating on whether or not he should join in, until he looks around the quad and, upon seeing nobody, finally decides to indulge in Dan’s game. They race around the turf, skidding and slipping and ripping up the grass. Phil tries to reach Dan, but no matter how hard he struggles he never seems to be able to catch up.

“What’s that Lester? Too slow are we?” Dan taunts, placing a hand on his hip.

That’s it, Phil thinks. 

Time to put Dan in his place. 

With a final burst of energy Phil lunges forward, hurtling himself towards the other man in a push that sends them crashing to the floor, foreheads colliding with a knock that’ll have both of them bruised by the time the sun shines.

“Ow,  _ shit _ ! My head!”

“You alright?”

Phil rolls off onto the cold lawn, swiftly disentangling himself from the mess of limbs as Dan pushes himself off the ground with a grunt of effort.

“Jesus  _ Christ  _ Phil! What are you, some sort of juggernaut?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Sometimes I don’t know my own strength.”

Dan breathes in deeply, eyes flitting over Phil’s body before travelling back up to meet him.

“Evidently not.”

There’s a moment of silence as they recover, and Phil notices that a few blades of grass are stuck to Dan’s face. Without thinking he reaches out a hand to brush them off, fingers briefly skimming across the surface of the boy’s cheek. Dan’s eyes are wide, and his breath is hot against Phil’s hand, lips parted as his eyes lock with Phil’s. There’s a presence in those eyes that Phil has seen before. Inspecting. Asking. Phil wants to trace his thumb across the surface of Dan’s panting mouth with those big, blinking, innocent eyes staring up at him, maybe slip in a finger and feel that soft, wet tongue...but the flare of uncertainty in his chest tells him to remove his hand, stand up from the ground, and say “shall we get going then?” in the steadiest voice he can muster.

After hoisting Dan up from the ground they creep across the quad towards the lodge where the porter sits. Or rather, where the porter normally sits.

“Hmmm. Still nobody here,” Dan confirms, crooking his head around the front desk.

Phil opens the latch of the small door and steps out. “Quickly then. We don’t want to get caught.” Dan hurries across the cobbled entrance, following him through the exit as it shuts behind them with a soft click.

As soon as they’re out the college gates Dan reaches into his coat and pulls out a small bottle of alcohol. Ah. That would explain a lot. He offers it to Phil, who nods in gratitude and takes a sip.

“Eurgh!” 

Dan laughs. “You don’t like whiskey?” Phil screws his eyes shut, shaking his head as if trying to rid himself of the taste. “Ah well - more for me!” 

On second thoughts, if Dan’s already drunk Phil doesn’t want to be the only one who’s sober, and so he reaches for the bottle with grabbing hands as Dan takes a healthy swig. Although he raises his eyebrows at Phil’s unexplained change of opinion, he hands it over regardless. As they amble through the streets Dan takes the drink back, downing it at an alarming rate, and by the time they’ve made their way to the highroad the vessel is as good as gone. 

“Ah, here we are,” Dan cries, “the theatre!” Phil winces - he’s a little on the loud side.

“I saw a fan- _ tastic _ production here the other week. The Phantom of the Opera it was. Bloody blil..bloody brilliant,” he slurs, waving the empty bottle around in his hand. “Very fine chap playing Erik, very fine...” He sighs. “I wanted to be an opera singer, y’know. Dunno know what ‘appened to that.”

Phil frowns. “What d’you mean ‘dunno what happened to that’? You can still have a shot at it.”

“You know, that’s very true,” he mutters, “very true...” 

As they walk down the deserted road the only sound to be heard is the clacking of their heeled shoes, until they turn down an ill-lit side-street and Dan begins to hum a tune that sounds familiar. 

“Is that-”

“The Phantom of the Opera? You didn’t say you’d seen it!” 

Before Phil can gush about his love of musicals, Dan unexpectedly bursts into song.

“ _ Beneath the opera house, _

_ I know he’s there, _

_ He’s with me on the stage, _

_ He’s everywhere. _ ”

For a moment, Phil forgets how to think. He hadn’t expected Dan’s voice to be so high pitched, so silky and delicate and feminine.

“ _ And when my song begins, _

_ I always find, _

_ The phantom of the opera is there, _

_ Inside my mind. _ ”

Dan nods his head as if expecting a reaction. Ah. The next part of the song is sung by The Phantom. Hesitant to embarrass himself but too tipsy to care, Phil takes in a deep breath and attempts to remember the lyrics.

“ _ Since once again with me, _

_ A strange duet. _

_ I power over you, _

_ Grow stronger yet. _

_ You give your love to me, _

_ For love is blind. _

_ The phantom of the opera is now, _

_ Your mastermind. _ ”

He looks back at Dan, whose gawk transforms into a grin.

“ _ Those who have seen your face, _

_ Draw back in fear. _

_ I am the mask you wear. _ ”

Another expectant look from Dan. Oh!

“ _ It’s me they hear! _ ”

If he’s correct, they sing the next part together.

“ _ My spirit and my voice, _

_ In one command. _

_ The Phantom of The Opera is there, _

_ Inside your mind. _ ”

Phil could have died on the spot - their voices sound amazing together. He turns around to beam at Dan, but Dan’s too busy acting to notice.

“ _ The Phantom of the Opera, _

_ He’s there. _

_ The Phantom of the Opera. _ ” 

He waltzes out into the road, obviously getting into it. Phil follows, and their voices combine more. 

“ _ Sing once again with me, _

_ A strange duet. _ ”

“ _ My power over you _

_ Grows stronger yet _ .”

“ _ You give your love to me , _

_ For love is blind. _

_ The Phantom of The Opera is now, _

_ My mastermind _ .”

“Sing my angel of music!” Phil cries.

“ _ He’s there, _

_ The Phan-tom of the O-per-aaaaa _ ”

“Sing once again with me,

For a strange duet.”

Dan finishes off the song with the highest note Phil has ever heard come from a man. Bursting into laughter, he bows to a one-man audience as Phil claps and shouts “bravo!”, throwing invisible roses onto an invisible stage before turning to walk down the street.

“Thank you, thank you,” Dan giggles, buzzing with adrenaline as he looks at Phil, who responds with equal spirit. He isn’t quite sure what just happened, but something about their voices combining together like that felt spectacular. It felt special. As their smiles fade, Dan looks as though he wants to speak.

“Phil,” he begins, “can I...can I compliment you?”

“Of course.”

“You have  _ the  _ most  _ incredible  _ voice. Seriously.”

Phil is stupefied. Really? His voice, “incredible”? 

Something wells up inside his chest, something wild and fleeting and frantic that makes him want to sprint and shout and bowl Dan over with a tackle or a hug or just give in to his long-restrained yearning and just grab his charming, boyish face and just kiss it-

Instead, he reaches out a hand, and lightly taps Dan on the nose with his finger.

“Phil, I think you are the strangest person that I have ever had the pleasure of meeting.”

“Hey, you’re equally weird,” he teases. 

“I know. That’s why I think you’re so wonderful.”

It’s his shy smile that tips Phil over the edge. He reaches out and pulls Dan into a hug that’s forceful and rough, throwing his arms around his shoulders and squeezing him tight as Dan instantly wraps his arms around him, gripping with equal vigour until they can’t get any closer.

“Thank you for agreeing to go on this mad walk with me. It’s just that I...I couldn’t sleep. This stupid performance is in two days and I’ve got so much work to do and I-” His voice cracks. Phil says nothing but rubs Dan’s back in consolation. After a while, the other boy pulls away. 

“Sorry,” he mutters, avoiding Phil’s eye.

“Don’t be sorry. You’re stressed, it’s understandable. I don’t mind anyway, it was my pleasure.” They begin walking. “Don’t worry about all this school work, you’ve got enough time to sort it out before the performance. If you don’t finish it, who cares - you can do it over the holidays.”

With a big sniff, Dan nods. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”

“As for Friday, I’m sure it’ll go smoothly. If you fluff a line just get your sword out and start duelling the audience with your fencing skills. They won’t know what hit them. Literally.”

“Let's hope I don’t fluff anything then, because I don’t want to have to kill you in a sword fight.”

“Aha! How bold you are to assume that I would lose! In fact, I, Philip Michael Lester, otherwise known as... Lance Lester, am a master of sword fighting, known throughout the land for my trusty steel and quick foot.” He snatches at the bottle in Dan’s hand, holding it by its neck. “This was my father's poniard, do you see? I'd be loth to see 't look rusty, 'cause 'twas his.”

Dan cackles, high pitched and loud. “Oh Phil, you’re such a geek, you know that right?”

“Oi - that’s Lance Lester to you!”

“Oh yeah? More like Feeble Phil,” he teases, jabbing at the other boy’s stomach. It doesn’t take long before they start to pretend-fight, scuffling in the street and tussling with each other all the way back home, gradually getting louder and more competitive until they circle back to Turl Street.

“Hey, hey, shhh!” Phil hisses. “We’re back at my college.”

Dan unclences Phil from a headlock and looks up. “We are indeed. Let’s hope the door’s still unlocked.” 

Phil gives it a gentle push, and it opens with a creak. Wriggling free from Dan’s grasp he slips into the entrance, standing with one foot it and one foot out, propping the door open with his chest.

“Well, good luck for rehearsals then. I’ll be at the chapel for…”

“For eight o’clock.”

“Eight o’clock. Right.”

Dan’s face falls. 

“My God.”

“What? What’s the matter?”

“I nearly forgot. Oh, what a  _ disaster  _ that would have been.” 

Phil raises an eyebrow. 

“On the night of the performance the chap I share a room with is going out, so I’m inviting a handful of people back to my room for a little party afterwards. I kept meaning to invite you but I never got round to it. Please say you can make it!”

“It’d be my pleasure.” 

Dan beams. “Perfect, I’ll see you there.” 

He turns away and walks up the street, hands thrust into his trouser pockets as he hurries back to his room. Phil stands at the door, watching. When Dan reaches the corner of the road he turns his head to face backwards, and, although he’s too far away to be sure, Phil is certain that he can feel the warmth of a smile shooting through the air and landing on his breast like the golden tip of Cupid’s pointed arrow, spreading through his body with a tender warmth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all my readers, I am so sorry that I have been SUCH a tease when it comes to them having their first kiss! It's like orgasm denial, but much more PG (LOL). Thank you for being patient with it - a little birdy tells me that in the next chapter you might be rewarded ;) see you in late March!


	5. Nowhere Fast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tonight is the night they have all been waiting for - tonight is the night of the Drama Society’s production of Romeo and Juliet. The chapel is hot and stuffy; Phil begins to feel slightly faint. His mind wanders away from the performance and drifts through the air, scattering across the mosaics, twinkling into the lights - ah, only an hour until Dan’s party...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello! I am back again for what could possibly be the final installment of Class of 1953! By that I mean that this is the last of the chapters that I had in mind when I was originally planning the story a few months ago. I may add more chapters if I come up with new ideas, because I do love writing this story, but I feel as though I may be moving onto other things. If I do add anything more it will probably be set a few months after this chapter’s events - like a kind of epilogue.
> 
> Before finishing the plot of chapter five I decided to revisit, re-edit and rewrite the rest of the other four chapters in order to remind myself of all that had happened whilst also correcting some mistakes I had previously made. How my writing style and skills have changed since the story’s conception! Reading back, some of it is either very poorly written or very embarrassing. If you are reading this story post 15th April 2020, you are blessed in that you have not had to suffer through my naive writing.
> 
> I strongly suggest that you re-familiarise yourself with the space that is Keble College chapel, and I have provided you with some links in order for you to do so:
> 
> https://media-cdn.tripadvisor.com/media/photo-s/03/27/d3/54/keble-college.jpg
> 
> https://www.keble.ox.ac.uk/wp-content/uploads/2018/07/Keble-Chapel.jpg

The air brims with a buzz of excitement as a hundred or so students take their seats in the neo-Gothic chapel. Amongst the crowds are a pair of particularly tired English Literature students; Phil, unable to stop himself from yawning, trips over the third handbag in a row as he makes his way down the pew to Mary, who shrieks with laughter at her companion’s clumsiness, before she herself joins in with his yawning. 

Tonight is the night they have all been waiting for - tonight is the night of the Drama Society’s production of Romeo and Juliet. The show marks the last day of term at the University of Oxford, and as lecture halls shut and the libraries close, thousands of students traipse across the town to parties and dinners in celebration of their first, second or third term here at Oxford. The past eight weeks have been academically demanding, mentally challenging and socially exhausting; Phil had taken an entire month not to feel overwhelmed at the imposing professors, the foreign city and the sea of unfamiliar faces. To make matters worse he had struggled to make friends, too nervous to join in with conversations in the lecture halls and dinner halls alike. Thankfully socialite Mary had then come to the rescue; dragging him along to clubs and speeches, competitions and parties, she had set to work sowing the seeds of a social life until Phil was sure there was no student in the city he hadn’t yet been introduced to. Before long several friendships had begun to bud, and then finally after a month of worrying, all was finally calm and relaxed in Phil’s world.

That is, until one of the seeds that Mary had secretly planted unexpectedly grew vines around his entire being, taking root inside of him with a strength he had never experienced the likes of before. Each day the petals grew bigger, the colours brighter and its scent ever sweeter, until eventually it had become so overwhelmingly pretty that it took every atom in Phil’s body not to pluck it lest his caress caused the flower to die. So there he had stood, secateurs in hand, unable to touch what he so badly wanted to cut from the stem and claim as his own.

The room is plunged into darkness. Phil snaps back to reality. A hushed stillness sweeps over the crowd and all eyes are trained on the chancel as the chamber becomes hushed. The clack of high heels ricochets off ancient walls as hree women clad in dark hooded cloaks come into view, gliding across the space and stopping before a threshold of candles as they remove their hoods, look up, and begin to speak in unison.

“Two households, both alike in dignity,

In fair Verona, where we lay our scene

From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,

Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.

From forth the fatal loins of these two foes

A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life;

Whose misadventur'd piteous overthrows

Doth with their death bury their parents' strife.

The fearful passage of their death-mark'd love,

And the continuance of their parents' rage,

Which, but their children's end, naught could remove,

Is now the two hours' traffic of our stage;

The which if you with patient ears attend,

What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.”

The three women replace their hoods and glide back to the enclosed space. 

Phil fidgets in his seat. The play is about to begin.

_ Enter Sampson and Gregory of the house of Capulet.  _

The servants barge onto the stage and chatter amongst themselves before being interrupted by the presence of their rival Montague servingmen. The scene quickly descends into chaos as Abram and Sampson quarrel, sir, and despite having watched, read and studied the scene countless times before Phil finds himself on the edge of his seat, wholly absorbed by the spectacular acting in front of him. In the midst of the madness Benvolio launches onstage, parting the bickering servants and beating down their swords as he begs them to stop. A trio of girls in the front row start to giggle. Phil furrows his brows, glaring daggers at the gaggle from the far side of the room. What about Dan’s acting is there to laugh at? Disgruntled, he turns his eyes back towards the set, before realising what’s causing their tittering.

Ah. The codpiece. Of course. With his cheeks feeling slightly hotter before, Phil switches his attention away from the girls and back towards the performance.

Sixty minutes pass, and as the two hours’ traffic reaches its halfway point the mood inside the chapel is that of intense concentration. There are no breaks in between scenes, no respite in the intensity of the emotion, and as such the air grows heavy and humid. Romeo and Juliet’s relationship explodes into existence, turbulently naive as it teeters like a spinning top, threatening to crash at the slightest wobble. The first tremors arise on a swelteringly hot day as Mercutio and Benvolio run into Tybalt and Romeo. Tensions spark immediately; swords crash, insults are spat, and in a flash Mercutio is left with a wound which damns him to a sudden and early grave. Staggering under Benvolio’s grasp with tears in his eyes he howls a plague o’ both the Capulet and Montague houses, and in a weeping mess, is dragged off stage. 

A few seconds later Benvolio re-enters. With a bowed head and anguished countenance, he sinks down to his knees and announces that the brave Mercutio is dead.

“Tybalt, here slain, whom Romeo's hand did stay.

Romeo, that spoke him fair, bid him bethink

How nice the quarrel was, and urg'd withal

Your high displeasure. All this- uttered

With gentle breath, calm look, knees humbly bow'd-

Could not take truce with the unruly spleen

Of Tybalt deaf to peace, but that he tilts

With piercing steel at bold Mercutio's breast;

Who, all as hot, turns deadly point to point,

And, with a martial scorn, with one hand beats

Cold death aside and with the other sends

It back to Tybalt, whose dexterity

Retorts it. Romeo he cries aloud,

'Hold, friends! friends, part!' and swifter than his tongue,

His agile arm beats down their fatal points,

And 'twixt them rushes; underneath whose arm

An envious thrust from Tybalt hit the life

Of stout Mercutio, and then Tybalt fled;

But by-and-by comes back to Romeo,

Who had but newly entertain'd revenge,

And to't they go like lightning; for, ere I

Could draw to part them, was stout Tybalt slain;

And, as he fell, did Romeo turn and fly.

This is the truth, or let Benvolio die.”

The hairs on Phil’s arm start to prickle, and an intense rush of passion floods into his breast. It feels as though he has just witnessed the greatest tragedy on earth. Lady Montague speaks and the plot moves on but all  _ he  _ can see is Dan, his Dan, the Dan who he had known was a keen actor but had never expected to be so talented as  _ this _ . 

As the room gets hotter, Phil begins to feel slightly faint. His mind wanders away from the performance and drifts through the air, scattering across the mosaics, twinkling into the lights - only an hour until Dan’s party...

The play draws near to its tragic end. As the bodies of the young couple are uncovered, the quarreling families finally begin to make amends.

“O brother Montague, give me thy hand.

This is my daughter's jointure, for no more

Can I demand.”

“But I can give thee more;

For I will raise her Statue in pure gold,

That whiles Verona by that name is known,

There shall no figure at such rate be set

As that of true and faithful Juliet.”

“As rich shall Romeo's by his lady's lie-

Poor sacrifices of our enmity!”

The two men stride towards each other and clasp hands, thus ending the feud which took the lives of their innocent children. As they part, Prince Escalus begins his closing speech.

“A glooming peace this morning with it brings.

The sun for sorrow will not show his head.

Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things;

Some shall be pardon'd, and some punished;

For never was a story of more woe

Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.”

The actors bow their heads, and the chapel is silent.

One person claps, two people clap, and then before long the whole audience explodes into rhapsodic applause accompanied by shouting and cheering and whistling, filling the air with an ecstatic buzz as the heaviness is lifted and transformed into a feeling of triumph. Onstage the actors and actresses break out into wide grins, linking arms and forming a line as they bow towards the audience, smiling and laughing at the roses, hats and handkerchiefs people throw at them.

There’s a tapping on Phil’s arm. As he angles around he sees Mary gesturing towards the door and saying something including the words ‘going to get Beth’ and ‘see you later’. He turns his attention back to the stage. Scanning through the actors and actresses he scours each circle until he locates Dan in a corner exchanging warm embraces with his friends. It’s a joyous sight; for the first time since the pair of them met, Dan looks well and truly relaxed. The boy pats one of his friends on the shoulder before waving goodbye and turning around to examine the audience. Phil perks up. What is he doing? Is he looking for someone? Could he be looking for him? Perhaps he’s looking for someone else. Perhaps there’s another friend Dan’s looking for, perhaps there’s someone else who he-

Their eyes connect, and Dan’s entire face lights up. Phil smiles, unable to stop the warmth bubbling in his chest as he waves.

Then, in a swift and synchronous movement, the pair are on the move. 

Leaping up from his seat Phil shuffles down to the end of his pew, apologising for treading on bags and shoes as he darts towards his companion as quickly as possible. He bypasses a flirting couple, crosses two confused parents, avoids a gaggle of staggering drunks and then slowly, excruciatingly forces his way through the backs of some excitable swots who are totally unaware that he’s trying to get past. Through a gap in their necks he manages to catch a glimpse of Dan. Trapped amongst a horde of plump and well-dressed gentlemen the boy stands a few meters away, unable to elude the meaty paws he has become ensnared in. The men eye him hungrily, bombarding him with bawdy and flirtatious comments which Dan graciously rebuffs as he locks eyes with the ginger haired boy, shooting him a wink and a knowing smile. Phil goes limp with infatuation. With a grunt of effort he pushes through the crack in the swots’ backs, inching through their shoulder blades, crawling between their knees, inhaling the stench of the sweat from their skin before finally, finally he is free! He lurches forward, rushing through the open space, skidding as he treads on a wonky stone slab, reaches his arms out and-

The force of their embrace sends them flying backwards, foreheads knocking together as they collide against the back of a pew with a sharp jolt. Dan’s neck feels clammy under Phil’s fingers, hair still moist from the sweat of the performance. There’s a certain roughness in the smell of musk and perspiration exuding from the boy’s damp skin as he’s pushed up against the pew...and then he feels the codpiece digging into his groin.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for tonight.” 

They pull themselves apart, legs and arms still intertwined. Dan’s face glows, golden and flushed, glistening as he grins with joy. 

“Hey - you should come backstage and meet the cast.” 

Phil scrunches his face up.

“No, I’m serious. I want you to meet them, they’re a wonderful bunch.”

Sighing, he bows his head in surrender. Dan beams, turning to walk down the aisle as Phil follows on close behind him, watching the golden lights twinkle as they pass through the excited crowds who- 

Knuckles brush against his. Phil flinches. Fingers dance around the back of his hand before scuttling over towards his palm. He smiles. Heart racing, he rotates his hand as his and Dan’s fingers interlace, a secret gesture of affection seen and understood by nobody else but the two of them. He gives the hand a squeeze, and it squeezes back. 

Right now, Phil could die happy.

The sea of faces washes on. A circle of students stand near the stage, singing For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow to a boy who waves his hands arounds in embarrassment. The entourage cheers, causing the boy to hide his head in his hands. Phil smiles at the scene, remembering how he once suffered a similar fate back in secondary school. They approach the stage, hands disentangling as they walk through the cloister which Dan had dressed inside during their visit to the chapel a few weeks prior. Squeezing through the narrow stone entrance Phil is immediately confronted by the stuffiness of the room. Twenty-odd actors and actresses all in various states of undress gossip and laugh as they run around, sharing bags of sweets and throwing roses at each other in giddy revelry.

“Ah, Daniel! Where have you been?”

Phil looks over to see the actor who had played Mercutio, a short Sikh man that Dan has to bend over to hug. After exchanging some brief jokes, the stranger looks over towards Phil.

“Hello my friend! You must be Philip,” he begins, voice imbued with a Punjabi accent. “I am Daljeet Kahlsa, but please, call me Dalji.” 

Daljeet’s handshake is firm, and when he smiles Phil notices that his moustache is curled at the ends. When complimented on it, the man only smiles wider.

“Ah, I can tell I am going to be friends with you! Daniel speaks of you often - he says you are a very clever man. What are you studying?”

“Oh,” he laughs nervously, “I’m probably not as clever as Dan says I am. I’m studying Eng-”

“Dalji please, you can interrogate him later! I’ve got to introduce him to everyone else first!” Dan cries.

“Okay, okay, as you wish!”

As Dan pulls him away Phil mouths an apology to Dalji, who replies with a reassuring wink. 

Passing through the congested room they walk over to a small crowd standing in front of a box which, every now and then, people unceremoniously fling their costumes into. Dan introduces him to a well-groomed and well-spoken man called Kenneth, who shakes his hand and asks “how do you do” followed by Christopher, a lanky, blond, bespectacled lad who greets Phil with a subtle nod of the head. 

“Here, sit down old chap,” Kenneth booms. “We don’t want to have you awkwardly standing up while the rest of us get changed.” 

Phil sits down, giving his thanks to the courteous man. Fortunately, before he can be bombarded with questions about who he is and what he’s studying, the group are interrupted by a loud Irish voice shouting the names of Dan and his friends. 

“Chris, Ken, Daniel! Where have you bastards been?”

“Owen! Come here you rascal,” Kenneth cries, shouting at a ginger haired boy who skitters towards him. The two begin to play fight, pretending to box as Dan rolls his eyes and Christopher watches on reprovingly. In the middle of the fighting Owen catches Phil’s eye and stops, tapping Kenneth to let him go.

“Hey, who's this?” He asks, lightly punching Phil on the shoulder.

“I’m a friend of Dan.” He reaches out a hand. “Phil, nice to meet you”.

“Ah, great to see you buddy. You enjoy the show?”

“Oh, it was superb!” He beams, looking around at the actors. “You’re all so wonderfully talented.”

Kenneth guffaws. “Well, Philip, I’m terribly glad you think so, but I shall have to correct you there.  _ We’re _ the talented ones,” he jests, pointing at himself, Christopher and Dan, “but  _ this  _ buffon managed to fuck up one of only five lines. Five lines! How on earth you managed to do it really is beyond me!”

“Too many whiskies,” Christopher mutters drily.

“Oi!” Owen scoffs. “Enough with the Irish stereotypes! I don’t even like whiskey. Now, Guiness however…”

The congregation continue to laugh and joke as they unlace their doublets, shuck their boots and peel off their tights. Out of modesty and embarrassment Phil averts his eyes, occasionally stealing a glimpse at the men in their vests, briefs and boxer shorts; regrettably, when Dan starts to rope him into the conversation, he has no choice but to look their way.

“Say, Christopher, you’re a bit of a photography whizz, aren’t you?”

A smirk flashes across the blond boy’s face as he adjusts his wire glasses. “Well, I wouldn’t  _ quite  _ say that I’m a whizz as such, but um, yes, I suppose I do enjoy taking the camera out for a bit of a spin every now and then.”

Phil’s interest is piqued. “What camera do you have?”

Christopher turns to face Phil with a surprised look on his face, as if not used to being talked to. “Oh, I’m not a serious photographer or anything,” he confesses, “my parents just bought me a Kodak Retina as a gift for my 18th birthday. I haven’t been using it much so far - mostly just taking pictures of wildlife really - but if this beautiful snow keeps up I just might have to start using it again.”

Dan re-enters the conversation, seemingly having engineered for it to go towards this point.

“Phil is part of a photography club, you know. Chris, you should join.”

“Really? Oh how wonderful. Yes, I’d be very interested in joining actually. When do you meet?”

“Thursdays at eight, right here at Keble,” Phil explains. “We’re only a small bunch and none of us are experts, so there’s no pressure to be a photographic prodigy or anything.”

“He says,” Dan jeers, “despite being one himself.”

Phil scoffs. “I am not!” 

“You should see his photographs,” Dan continues, putting a leg on Phil's chair and a hand on his shoulder. “Harsh shadows, mesmerising patterns, vivid colours - this chap could make the most mundane of objects look worthy of being in the Ashmolean Museum.”

“Now this is just nonsense - pure flattery,” he assures Christoper. Nonchalantly leaning back in his chair he angles his head towards his flatterer, halting when he sees the look on the boy’s face. The solemnity of Dan’s expression burns through him like hot coals, brows slightly furrowed as he stares into Phil’s grey eyes with a look of unwavering adoration. If the pair of them were alone he might cry at such a gaze, and with an uneasy swallow he turns back to Christopher. “Still, come to the club when it resumes in the New Year, we’d be glad to have you.”

“Fantastic,” he beams. “I shall make a note in my diary!”

The group don their normal clothing and make their way out of the chapel, stopping frequently to say their goodbyes to fellow actors and actresses while picking up various party-goers along the way. As they leave the chapel Phil strikes up a conversation with Christopher, who turns out to be a second year History student with many similar interests to him. Ambling across the Liddon Quad with the rest of the crowd - which has now amassed to a party of twenty-five plus a few stragglers - they talk of studying Latin, trips to the Isle of Man, and how to cultivate rare South American plants in an English greenhouse. Before long they arrive at the corridor leading to Dan’s room, which has now become rammed with people as the boy struggles to unlock his door.

“Urry up then!” An impatient partygoer shouts.

“Alright, alright, be patient!” Dan retorts. The crowd laughs, and then, finally, the door swings open.

The torrent of people carries Phil into the room until it dissipates, dropping him in the middle of and submerging him in his new surroundings. 

This is Dan’s room. This is the place where Dan lives.

In Oxford’s typically palatial style the walls are panelled with wood, there’s a fireplace at one end, and in the centre sits a red velvet sofa amongst a few ratty leather armchairs that circle around a dark wooden coffee table. Tucked away into the corner is a small black piano with a jumble of sheets laid on top of it, no doubt Dan’s doing. Feeling relaxed by the homely decor Phil helps himself to a healthy glass of champagne and saunters through the room, searching for someone familiar to talk to. 

It doesn’t take long before he’s stopped by Daljeet, and half an hour later, Phil finds himself engrossed in a retelling of the man’s life. Seven years of service in the British Army during World War Two had only rewarded Daljeet and his country with partition, a bitter war that he had escaped by fleeing his country and returning to England. Within a year of his return he met his now-wife and had begun studying for a Medicine degree at Oxford, which he is now in the third year of. Aside from an interest in science Daljeet reveals that he also has a love for contemporary American literature, but just as Phil is about to ask his opinions on The Catcher in the Rye the pair of them are interrupted by the sound of tinkling glass and a loud cough. They look around in confusion, wondering what the noise was, until they see a man standing on the sofa with a glass of whiskey and a silver spoon in his hand, waiting for silence as the chattering grinds to a halt.

“Good evening ladies and gentlemen. We are gathered here today to witness-”

A woman shouts at him from the corner. “This isn’t a bloody wedding, George!”

Several people laugh. “Oh be  _ quiet  _ Olivia! Come on then, come up here. Ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together for Miss Juliet!” 

As the crowd cheers a tall, elegant woman with long, mousy brown hair bounds up to the sofa and is hoisted up by George, who wraps his arms around her and kisses her cheek. 

“Now then, I suppose  _ you  _ would like to do the honours?”

“I think I shall,” she beams. “Hello everyone. I would just like to quickly say an enormous thank you to all of you for coming tonight. You were marvellous. I’d also like to say a big thank you to my wonderful Romeo...” 

This immediately sets off whooping and whistling as Olivia giggles. 

“Where are you Harry, where are you, ah! Hands off my woman, do you hear?” George cries, raising his fist in mock jealousy. 

“Anyway, tonight is a night for celebration. Congratulations to those of you who have just completed their first Michaelmas term here at Oxford - the workload only gets heavier from here on in,” she laughs. “Many thanks to the magnificent Daniel for letting us use his room for our revelry, but remember everyone! Do not go into Terence’s room, or we shall all receive a beating from that brute, do you hear? Now, go off and be merry you depraved bastards, and if you want champagne, form a queue here!”

The chattering resumes, and as Phil turns around to find somebody else to talk to he sees Mary approaching him with Beth on her arm. 

“Hello you two! Are you having fun?”

“We certainly are! I’ve just rescued Beth from Bailiol’s drab Christmas party. It looked absolutely horrend-”

“Really, it wasn’t  _ that  _ bad! You just wanted me to leave so you wouldn’t be alone at Daniel’s,” Beth cries.

“Yes alright, alright,” Mary tuts. “Phil, come - you must meet our friends, I’ve told them I’ll introduce you, come.”

Gripping his arm, she drags him across the room until they arrive in front of two American brunettes with coquettish, blushing faces who are introduced to him as Joan and Jean. Their small talk is light and humorous, and as they share anecdotes and funny stories about their time at the university Phil begins to notice that his new acquaintances appear to be quite taken with him. They ask about what he’s studying, what college he’s at, where he comes from and what his hobbies are, and as the conversation progresses he could swear that Joan and Jean are edging closer to him each time they keel over at his jokes. 

Finding their flirtations slightly intimidating, he scans the room for a certain familiar face. Their eyes lock immediately. Dan takes a swig of champagne and sends him a reassuring wink, mouthing ‘you okay?’ through the distance. Phil simply indicates towards Joan and Jean, who have taken to clutching onto his arms. Dan explodes into laughter. ‘You’ll be fine,’ comes the response, followed by another bout of mirth. Phil stifles a snicker.

“Hey Phil,” Joan begins, batting the lashes of her big blue eyes. “You say you’re teaching yourself Latin? That’s so neat.”

“Oh I agree, you must be super clever,” Jean adds, pawing at his arm. “I’m taking French as well as English Lit. I can help you out with your lessons, if you’d like.”

The other one tuts. “I’m sure he doesn’t need our help, Jean.”

“But I’m sure he wouldn’t mind! Won-”

“I’m afraid,” Phil interrupts, “that I’ve had to go on a bit of a break with studying Latin, as I’ve had quite a lot of other things to focus on this term.”

“Oooh, like what?” One of them asks. Phil is starting to forget which is which.

“Well, like-”

“Like a girl, perhaps?”

Phil shoots a nervous glance at Mary and Beth, who look as though they’re restraining themselves from laughing.

“Oh Philip, do you have somebody that you’re seeing?” 

“Well...not really, but I um...”

Phil now faces the difficulty of trying to explain his situation whilst skirting around the fact that he is openly-but-also-not-openly a homosexual who is probably-almost-definitely falling in love with a boy who is probably-almost-definitely falling in love with him too despite neither of them explicitly talking about it but both of them communicating it through questions and answers and gestures that have been building up to something which Phil sincerely hopes will come to a conclusion tonight, so sorry June or Jane or Joa, or whatever it is, but there’s absolutely no chance whatsoever of anything happening ever in a million years. 

Fortunately, before he has to face that problem, the man of his affections swoops across the room and steps towards the group.

“Good evening Mary, Beth, Phil - oh! Who are  _ these  _ lovely ladies I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting?”

“Hi, I’m Joan,” the first one giggles, reaching out her hand for him to kiss with Jean following on in the same fashion. The two women exchange a glance, the meaning of which Phil understands with a feeling of disgust.

_ Great - one each.  _

Filled with enough repulsion to last a lifetime, he flashes a panicked looks towards Dan.

“Well ladies, it’s a pleasure to meet you, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to dash off and take Phil with me.” 

The girls’ faces fall. “Please say you’ll come back!”

“Ah, I’m afraid he’s mine. See you later ladies.”

“But-”

Phil walks off, returning Mary’s sly smirk with a nod as he breaks away from the circle and catches up to Dan. When they’re halfway across the room Phil releases a long breath, finally free of unwanted attention as they pull up to a side table laden with alcohol.

“Champagne for you, sir?”

“Go on then. I could do with a drink.”

Dan pours one out for both of them and hands a flute to Phil. “Cheers!”

“Cheers.”

The champagne is delightful, washing through his system like a cool, crisp wind on a hot summer’s day. They take their seats on two small chairs that lie parallel to the table, unintentionally mimicking each other’s body language as they rest an elbow against the top rail, prop their heads up against their hands, cross their outermost legs inwards and then lean in to face one another. 

“So,” Dan begins, “now that I’ve finally got you alone, tell me - how are you?”

“I’m fine - tired - but nevertheless enjoying myself. Thank you for saving me from those girls earlier, I was having a completely rotten time with them.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it! It was my pleasure,” he assures, taking a sip of his drink and leaning in slightly closer. “Anyway, I couldn’t let them at you, could I? You’re mine.”

“Am I now?” Phil quips, taking another swig of champagne and passing over the flute to his other hand as Dan unconsciously does the same. “It got terribly awkward when one of them asked me whether I had a girlfriend.”

Dan guffaws. “You should have told them that you do,” he jests, grabbing Phil’s hand and holding it. “ _ ‘Hi, I’m Daniella Howell, pleased to meet you! I’m Phil Lester’s girlfriend, tee hee!’ _ ”

Phil laughs at Dan’s ridiculous impression, doubled over with tears in his eyes as his chest heaves. When the act finishes, Dan’s hand stays stationary. Phil’s eyes flit down, admiring the sight of their hands together before he looks up at Dan, who smiles at him fondly. Suddenly Dan’s eyes flit across Phil’s face and over to something in front of him, a small smirk creeping across his face.

“Look, look over there.”

“What?”

“Turn your head around, slowly.”

Careful not to look suspicious, he cranes his neck backwards to see Joan and Jean peering over at their shoulders and gawking them. They spin away, realising that they’ve been noticed. Phil turns back to face his companion, raising his eyebrows.

“Oh dear.”

“Oh dear indeed. Poor girls, they don’t have a chance in Hell with us.”

“Mmm, quite.” Dan removes his hand, places his glass on the floor, and slaps his knees. “It’s a bit stuffy in here, don’t you think?” 

Phil nods, finishing his champagne and putting the glass on the table next to him. 

“Come on, let's go and open some windows.”

Dan pulls him out of his seat, bubbles dancing around his head as they cut across the room. Phil thinks he can hear the sound of Joan and Jean trying to get their attention, but he’s too tipsy to tell. They stop in front of a door as Dan fumbles around in his pockets for a key, thrusts it into the lock and turns, opening up the shadowy alcove within. 

Stepping forward, Phil crosses the threshold, door closing behind him with a soft click as he’s sealed off from the outside world with a soft click. The hairs on his arm start to prickle. He can hear the sound of Dan’s footsteps treading through the inky blackness, followed by the glide of opening curtains. Blue light pours into the room, dim and obscure. He steps up onto the window seat-cum-window sill that Dan stands upon, catching a glimpse of the city before the panes swing open and cold air sails into the room. The moon shines brightly, illuminating the ivory frosted lawns and red brick fortress that separates them from the rest of Oxford, a sea of gleaming church spires that stretch on for ever and ever like a vast expanse of endless and undiscovered land.

“It’s a breathtaking view.”

“Not as breathtaking as you are.”

Phil’s heart thumps in his breast. He whips his head around. “Really?”

“Yes, really.” 

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

His heart beats even faster. He thinks he knows what’s coming next. Dan hooks his fingers around Phil’s belt loops, pulling their hips together while looking him dead in the eye. Phil’s gaze darts to the floor.

“I-I mean, if you think so then I can’t refute you, but in my eyes you are, and always have been, far, far more handsome, a-and-”

“Phil.”

He looks up.

“Just kiss me.”

Time stands still.

Their faces inch closer, breath mingling and eyelashes brushing across each other’s skin before finally, finally, their lips connect with a kiss. 

It starts off soft, and slow, and delicate, before growing stronger and rougher until Phil is pressed up against the wall with his hands on Dan’s rear and his tongue slipped into his mouth, touching, feeling and devouring every inch of this gorgeous boy in a starved rapture, their kisses growing deeper and more adventurous until something starts to stir and Phil moves his hand to grab-

_ *knock knock knock* _

They break apart, freezing to the spot. 

The door swings open.

“See, Joan, I told you they weren’t in here.”

“But they must be, where else would they-”

The light switches on.

The girls turn their heads.

Their jaws drop.

“Oh my god. Oh my god. I’m so sorry. How do I...oh my- carry on…” 

Moving as quickly as they can the intruders shuffle out of the room, turning off the light as the door closes behind them. A few seconds later the sound of Mary’s cackling can be heard. Phil looks over at Dan, who stares back at him. Dan starts to snigger until then they both erupt into laughter, cachinnation soaring out of the window and into the breeze. As they quieten down Phil looks out towards the view below, resting his forearm on the sill as a peaceful stillness settles. Keble’s vast, niveous quadrangle extends before him, glowing with a magical sparkle under the ultramarine wash of moonlight. Beyond the red brick turrets lie a mass of church spires and plane trees and twinkling car headlamps.

Dan sighs. “I can’t believe that that just happened.” 

Phil rotates his head around and watches the other boy. “Ridiculous, right? Did they really not get the hint that we weren’t interested in them?”

“I wasn’t talking about that.” 

“Hmm?” He blinks. “What were you talking about?”

“About us. I can’t believe it happened.”

“Oh.”

“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to do that.”

A sheepish smile flickers over Phil’s face as he looks back towards the quad. Out of the corner of his eye, a light turns on. A student opens her curtains, peering out of the glass and staring at the snow-covered grass before pulling up a chair to the window and beginning to read a book. After a few seconds she gives up on reading and stares back out of the window, brushing a strand of hair out of her face as she rests her head in her hands.

Dan clears his throat. “Ever since I first saw you,” he begins, “I have been completely and utterly enamoured by you.” 

Phil turns around, resting his head on the window as he watches the boy speak.

“I have always thought of you rather like a secret garden. I imagine myself walking down a tree-laden path, exploring some uncharted territory near a house I have recently moved into when I come across a gate clad with ivy. As I go up to the gate, I see that it is closed. I peer inside. From this side of the gate I can’t see much, but what I can see is stunning - arches and roses and statues and fountains, neatly kept and beautifully decorated, the creation of a person with real elegance and grace. Unable to enter I continue on with my walk, but as I arrive home I find that my thoughts all centre around that mysterious gated oasis. Each day I visit it, and each day there is something new to discover: a babbling brook; a tree bearing fruit; a peacock wandering the grounds; a bridge tucked away in the distance. The more I visit the more my obsession grows, but I am too scared to try the lock or climb the walls lest the owner of the garden doesn’t want me there.” He pauses, shifting in his spot. “One day I arrive at those walls and decide to give the railings a shake; to my surprise, I find that it is open. Tentatively I push the gate, and as I walk in I am greeted by the most heavenly sight that I have ever seen. The sky is blue and warm, the flowers sweet and bright, the brook is clear, the fountain is great, and the fruit is full and ripe. I chide myself for not realising that the gate was unlocked all this time, thus idiotically depriving myself of something that I could have enjoyed for months before. After a short while I think to myself that perhaps it was destined to be this way, for now, after admiring for so long, I can truly appreciate what it is I have to behold.”

Phil takes a slow breath and tries to will his brimming tears back into his eyes. Biting the inside of his mouth he squints and knits his brows together, trying to compose himself. 

It’s no use. 

He turns to Dan, steps forward, cups his jaw and kisses him, firmly and wholeheartedly. The other boy’s hands clutch him by the waist, pulling him in as their kiss continues. After a few seconds they break apart, still in each other’s embrace and gazing into each other’s eyes as they catch their breath.

“That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.”

Dan beams. “Well, the inspiration behind it was quite something.

Phil is about to ask what it was, before remembering with a leap of joy that it was himself. 

“Oh Dan, how are we going to live apart for the next month? I don’t want to go home, away from you!”

The other man pauses to think. “I know - we shall send each other letters! I’ll write to you about Reading and my music work and you can write back to me about your photography and all the books you’re reading.” 

Phil grins. “That sounds great. I’d love that.”

There’s a brief moment of silence spent looking into each other’s eyes. Dan is the first to move, slapping Phil’s back and moving away.

“We had better get back to this party! People must be starting to wonder where we are.”

“Mmmm. We don’t want a repeat incident of Joan and Jean barging in.”

Dan laughs as he steps down from the window ledge, holding Phil by his wrists despite the drop being perfectly safe. They walk through the dark room together, still connected. 

“If I catch them looking at you again I shall have to kiss you in front of their prying eyes.”

“No, no, you mustn’t!” Phil giggles, wriggling as Dan nuzzles his face.

“Here, let me get one out the way before we go out there and I can’t kiss you again.”

Pulling Phil in by the wrists he draws him in for one last kiss, slow and sweet. Letting go of his hands he twists the door handle open, and a streak of warm light floods into the room. He turns around, giving Phil one last smile, before the pair of them walk through the doorway and back into the bustling party. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deary me! Wasn't that quite something. 25,000 words before they even kiss, huh?
> 
> Thank you so so sooo much to anyone who has read, left kudos and commented - I greatly appreciate your appreciation. If you enjoyed it, let me know! I've got some vague plans for some more chapters, but we shall have to see ;) Until then, ta-ra!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. It means the absolute world to me, and I hope you'll stick around for more!
> 
> As well as writing, I also create art. My Tumblr is @et-in-cinerem-reverteris, and my Instagram is @shutup_turd. See you there!


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